


Seven Sad Forests

by carolinablu85



Series: A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall [2]
Category: Justified
Genre: AU, Angst and Humor, Ava has a habit of taking in strays, F/M, Families of Choice, Gen, Tim needs a hug. He just doesn't want one.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 03:41:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 39,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/908477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carolinablu85/pseuds/carolinablu85
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A continuation of "Six Crooked Highways" - Tim navigates between Harlan's criminal activity, his strange pseudo-family, and an unhinged carpetbagger from Detroit. </p><p>(AKA, an AU look at season 3, if Tim were on the other side of the law)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _I've stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains, I've walked and I've crawled on six crooked highways,_  
>  I've stepped in the middle of seven sad forests, I've been out in front of a dozen dead oceans -Bob Dylan
> 
>  
> 
> Chapter One - in which our heroes ("heroes"?) recover from bullet wounds and search for buried treasure
> 
>  
> 
> [Jacob's voice] Previously, on Justified: This fic is a direct sequel to "Six Crooked Highways", so if you haven't read that yet... you might wanna!

**Three weeks later...**

He worked the chamber, racked it in, all movements slow and steady. As quiet as possible. He kept an eye on his target, letting some awareness keep track of his surroundings- any people around, friend or foe. The wind direction and speed. The barely-there dull ache in his side.

Deep breath, let it out. Fire.

Tim was sitting up before the sound of the gunshot had cleared the air. He didn’t smile- of course not- but allowed himself a quick nod of satisfaction. There was that little bit of ache, but his shot wasn’t affected. The stitches were out, there wasn’t even a slight pull at his side, no burn across his ribs with the recoil.

Full recovery. 

...Well. Relatively speaking.

He put his rifle and himself through the paces for awhile longer, more for the comfort it provided than anything else. Some people drank, some people listened to Hank Williams, some people (Ava, though she thought she was hiding it) ate ice cream by the pint, some people fired rifles. Tim was that last people. And maybe a little of the first.

He took the long way around back to the front office to sign out of the range, taking the time to stretch his legs back out, keep that clearness in his head as long as possible. He took another deep breath, letting in the smell of oil and gunpowder, sweat and mechanics. The staccato of gunfire in the short range hall...

A second’s hesitation, and then Tim slipped inside the building, wondering if maybe Johnno or Coop was in there, if maybe they wanted to go grab a drink. They were okay guys, despite the unfortunate affliction of being Marines.

_Former_ Marines, he corrected himself. They were almost all ‘formers’ here. Making buddies out of each other, clinging to camaraderie like the nostalgia it was, since too many of their own buddies from Over There never made it to retirement.

“Aaaaand shit,” he groaned, mostly to himself. Because it wasn’t Johnno or Coop or even MJ (Navy SEALs are alright guys too, sometimes better because of their classified shit- Tim sometimes wished he wasn’t allowed to talk about his service either) or any ‘former’ in the middle range. Fucking Raylan Givens and his fucking hat hanging next to him. 

Tim stayed in the hallway and watched through the window, unable to quell the curiosity. He’d heard through a few grapevines that Raylan was still recovering from his own gunshot wound, maybe his quickdraw wasn’t as-

He couldn’t help but wince when Raylan tried to cross-pull and nearly doubled over in the recoil. Tim was gonna go ahead and guess Raylan was still on desk duty. And he almost winced again- Lord help Tim if he ever had a job that entailed a desk of _any_ kind. No way. That was one of the reasons he’d taken the discharge; they weren’t going chain Tim to some military office for the rest of his-

“Why, Timothy Gutterson, as I live and breathe,” Raylan had packed up and left the range, catching Tim in the hall. All trace of pain gone from his face, but Tim raised an eyebrow, quirked it just high enough to tell Raylan he’d seen, but not high enough to look like he actually cared. Non-verbal smartassery was an artform, really. Tim had perfected it when he was sixteen.

“How’s the side?” he asked, perfectly bored, maybe a little taunt to it.

“How’s yours?” Raylan said right back. Somehow by unspoken agreement, they walked in time back to the office. Raylan’s wound kept his stride from being as long as it usually was, Tim easily able to keep up.

“I hit _my_ targets,” he shrugged.

“Hey, I hit all the targets too,” Raylan protested.

“I hit _my_ bullseyes,” Tim corrected himself, said it with the exact same inflection, mocking and dry.

Raylan just made a face, unconsciously tracing the holster at his side. Tim had a slight flash of... not sympathy, fuck that, but commiseration. He’d hated being sidelined after his first war wound. Two weeks stuck in medical and then in command tents while his guys got sent out into the sand? It sucked.

“What does a U.S. Marshal on desk duty do, anyway?” he asked, somewhat curious, mostly because he knew it would annoy Raylan.

It worked. “Count paperclips, mostly,” he grumbled. They entered the main office, going to the front desk to sign out. Raylan went first, and Tim wasn’t really pleased to note that Raylan’s name was on the short range sheet a couple times. Was it because Tim had told him not to come back here? Probably. He was as much of a contrary asshole as Tim.

“And you’re actually following the rules? I’m... what’s the opposite of impressed?” he headed out to the parking lot after he signed out, Raylan following.

“Unimpressed,” Raylan muttered.

“That’s it,” Tim snapped his fingers.

“What else am I supposed to do?” he snapped, probably not at Tim specifically though. “Only got one case going on right now, and I can’t-”

“Can’t drive a car and talk to people? Weird, you’re doing an aggravatingly good job of it now,” Tim talked over him, slow and lazy. He leaned against his truck, eyeing Raylan expectantly.

Raylan glared back but couldn’t (of course) back down from a challenge. “Ever hear of Fletcher Nix?”

“Well, that’s a stupid name. Dr. Suess?”

Raylan made that face again. It was probably supposed to be stern and intimidating, but came closer to petulant instead. Tim refrained from pointing that out. “Also goes by the name The Ice Pick.”

“Oh shit, him? What’s he doing in Lexington?” Tim continued his unconcerned lean against his truck.

“So you’ve heard of him,” Raylan did the same lean against his own car, even though he needed a hand on his side to brace the movement. Tim raised his eyebrow again, just for a second. _I saw that too._ “Have you met him?”

Tim shook his head. “I know a guy who knows a guy. He plays this weird fucking game with his targets before he shoots them, pretends to let them have a chance.”

“I reckon that’s where the ice pick through the hand comes in?” Raylan mused, eyes shrewdly looking him over.

He shrugged. “Don’t reach for his gun, that’s all I know.” He eyed right back, choosing his words carefully. “Last I heard, he used to work for some people in Frankfort.”

Raylan smiled darkly, the smile that meant ‘of course my day is ruined.’ “How did I know Wynn Duffy was gonna be involved.”

Tim wasn’t really familiar with the name, filed it away in his brain in case it was useful later. “You gonna go talk to him?”

He grimaced. “Can’t. Desk duty.”

Tim rolled his eyes, standing up straight to open his car door. “Just say you’re going on lunch.”

“I’m not supposed to be-”

“Or stay and count your paperclips, whatever makes you happy,” Tim huffed, climbing into his truck. With the door still open, he fixed a completely unimpressed gaze on Raylan. “Have a _productive_ rest of your day, Deputy.”

Raylan faltered, glared, faltered again. Tim bit back an annoyed sigh- the guy really was off his game. “I can’t go talk to Duffy.”

Don’t ask why, don’t ask why. “Why not?” Oh, fuck you, Gutterson. 

“Last time I saw him, I told him our next conversation wasn’t gonna be a conversation,” he answered, a little wayward helplessness coming through.

Tim made sure to really roll his eyes this time. “And I’m sure that was real clever at the time.” Off Raylan’s pout, “So, this is a different conversation.”

Raylan raised his own eyebrow. “That’s the best you got?”

“Pot? Kettle?” Tim drawled back. “Whatever. Go do something. Stop coming to my range.” He shut his door, wishing his window wasn’t broken so he could roll it up and block out Raylan. 

Alas. “But I like this range,” Raylan smirked.

Tim sighed, started up his truck. “I hate you.”

***

“Damn it!” Ava was two and a half seconds away from throwing the knife across the room. Or start crying. Maybe both. Both seemed like a major possibility. “Damn it.”

The front door opened and closed, and as if he knew where he was needed, Tim walked into the kitchen, pausing in the doorway. “Ava?” he ventured cautiously.

“Yeah?” she set down the knife, swiping at the tears on her face with the back of her unimpaired hand.

He seemed to weigh his words carefully. “Are you attacking the lemons or did the lemons attack you?”

She laughed a little, watery, still frustrated. “I made iced tea.”

He dared to come closer. “And decided to celebrate by sacrificing some fruit to your god of...” he picked up the knife, sent her a disapproving look. “You thought you could cut lemons one-handed?”

She shrugged, mindful of her sling. “I thought I could try.”

Tim shook his head, flipped the knife around expertly in his hand. “Couldn’t wait five more minutes for me to get home? Take your glass- just yours, just _one_ \- out to the porch. I’ll bring the rest out,” he huffed, so put upon and annoyed, already slicing up the lemons with quick, practiced cuts.

Ava had to smile. If she’d had both hands free, she would’ve reached out and ruffled his hair to annoy him further. Once she was out on the porch waiting for him, she let herself really grin.

Tim had called it ‘home’.

She had the smile back under control when he joined her, his own glass of tea (and probably bourbon, she didn’t ask) in hand, lemon slices on a plate for her. “Aw, thanks honey,” she said sweetly.

He grimaced at the term, of course, but settled onto the porch rail across from her chair. “You didn’t pull anything, did you?”

She glanced down at where her wound was covered up by her shirt. “It’s fine. The doc said I’ll be able to get rid of the sling in a few days.”

Tim nodded, sipping at his drink. Definitely had bourbon in it, if he was sipping. “Until then? No knives.”

“Yes dear,” she grinned some more. The grumpier Tim got- his playful grumpy, not his real (scary) temper- the happier she was. She’d been happy a lot lately.

It had taken a few days, and a combination of both of them on painkillers, but Ava was finally able to convince Tim to move- officially and really- into the guest room. And to what she was sure was his surprise, it _worked_. Ava wouldn’t trade these last three weeks for near anything.

The two of them recuperated, Tim faster than her, with Boyd a constant presence, prodding them both to good health. Boyd had a decent caretaker quality to him, she’d discovered. Maybe they’d all discovered. Including Boyd.

She readjusted the strap of the sling around her collar bone. “Never had a sling before. Hell, before Bowman, I’d never been injured before,” she said lightly. “Mama never really let me roughhouse as a kid, run around in the woods or anything.” Another smile, remembering. “Wasn’t lady-like.”

Tim offered a smile too. Attempted, more accurately. “Can’t say I relate.”

She didn’t frown, tried not to pry too hard. “No?”

He sipped his drink, sitting sideways so he could see both her and the front yard. “I’m not very lady-like.”

Ava laughed softly. “You’ve worn a sling before, then.” She knew bits and pieces. Tim only ever revealed himself in bits and pieces. She had this image of him, everything cut up and broken on the inside, his pieces barely held together- all under his skin and making him up as a person.

Boyd, and Raylan too now that she thought about it, they were the same- bodies of cracks and things about to shatter. But whereas Boyd and Raylan fought and railed against it, told themselves whatever they needed to to deny the cracks... Tim just accepted. Didn’t try to patch himself together. Just carried on.

Ava just wanted to put some of it back together. She was helping with Boyd with his, she knew she was. And she knew Tim needed her too. He just didn’t know he _could._

He shrugged now. “Once or twice. Don’t like ’em, I’d rather crutches than a sling.”

“You can still shoot on crutches,” she half-guessed, half-teased.

He rewarded her with a genuine smile. “Maybe.”

“How old were you, first time you had a sling?” She was anticipating something young; his father (and it was never ‘daddy’ like everyone else- Tim had a father) was the subject of Tim’s worst jokes- the ones that fell flat and tasted bitter.

Tim tilted his head, counting back. “Eleven, I think.”

“Dislocated shoulder,” she guessed some more. If she tried hard, she could picture it. A scrawny, scrappy eleven year old kid in need of a haircut, with a hard glare and bruised face, a much larger hand grabbing him by the shoulder, yanking hard...

He lifted his glass a little, cheers to her. “Yep.”

Ava drank her tea, a few sips at a time. “I’m glad Bowman never got me pregnant,” she confessed in a rush, surprising herself. “I’d hate myself if I let... if I put a child through that.”

Tim shook his head after a pause. “You’d get out.”

“Tim-”

“If you had a kid, you- you’d love that kid so much. You’d protect it. You would’ve left Bowman,” he said it firmly, no question, barely stumbling over the L word.

“Your mama didn’t,” she said quietly.

He didn’t flinch. Of all Tim’s cracks and pieces, this was something he was completely at terms with. “Ava, my mother was in prison by that point anyway.” Not mama- mother. “Since I was seven or eight. Never got out,” he shrugged again. “Died in some fight, ten years back I think.”

Ava tried hard not to stare at him. “I didn’t know you... why was she-?”

Tim was already shrugging. “No idea. They didn’t tell me when it happened, and my father didn’t talk to me about much of anything. Ever. I stopped caring a long while ago.” He turned on the railing to face her straight on. “You ain’t her.”

There was a lot behind that statement. Ava looked right back at him, running through her brain for the right response. It didn’t seem _fair_ , or _right_ , or anything. What if Tim had had a mama like hers, not a ‘mother.’ What if-

Tim snorted, amused, leaning back again. So at ease. “Of course, with your luck, you’dve ended up with a boy like me,” he smirked, sipping his drink again, inviting her in on the joke.

She threw a smile on her face, hoped it stuck, and sat back too. “If I did, I would’ve loved him. So much.”

He flinched this time, really did. She pretended she didn’t see it, adding another lemon to her sweet tea. He tried to cover, checking his watch. “Boyd’s probably getting himself arrested right about now. You think Raylan’ll be the one to call you with the news?”

_Since when are you calling him Raylan?_ Ava wanted to ask. But she grimaced instead. “I still don’t think this is the wisest plan Boyd’s ever come up with.”

He snorted again. “None of Boyd’s plans are that wise, Ava. They’re just built to work.”

She conceded that. “A lot has to go right on luck, though.”

Tim conceded that right back. “I’m surprised you’re okay with it, to be honest.”

Ava took her time answering. “Boyd’s always gonna do what he thinks is best. And his way of thinking is different from most everybody,” she smiled when Tim smirked at that. “Most times I have no idea where his thoughts come from, and by the time I see the logic in ’em, he’s moved on to a dozen new thoughts.”

“You see the logic in this one yet?” Tim asked, giving no indication if he himself did or not.

Ava scrunched up one side of her face. “Maybe. I know it seems like this is all for his grudge against Dickie Bennett, but we both know it’s more than that.”

“It usually is,” Tim agreed lazily.

She studied him again. After getting it through his thick skull that she didn’t blame him for Dickie shooting her- that it wasn’t his fault- and getting him to move in for real, Ava liked to think they’d gotten closer. As close as Tim let people get. He was a bit lighter around her, and she could read him better. And right now... “You do still, don’t you?”

Tim glanced at her. He could read her better too. “What, hold a grudge against Dickie?”

“Yeah,” she leaned back in her chair, giving him just that much more space.

Tim ticked his jaw left and right a few quick times. “Yeah, maybe.” He tilted his head at her. “I watched him shoot you in front of me. Even if I’da killed him then, I’d still probably have a grudge.” He shook his head, looked down at his empty glass. “That kinda shit doesn’t go away just ’cause someone dies.”

Ava hated how true that was.

***

She had a bad taste in her mouth the second they pulled up to Arlo’s house. “Well-” she started to sigh, sizing up the unfamiliar car in the driveway.

“Tennessee plates,” Tim pointed out as he shut off the truck.

“-Shit,” she completed the sigh. She and Tim exchanged a glance before getting out and walking up to the porch.

“Ava,” Devil near-skittered out of the house to meet them on the steps. Like a cockroach. “Tim.”

“Devil,” she took point, not surprised when Tim stayed close, maybe a step or two behind her, eyes tracking movement inside the house. He kept quiet. “Arlo throwing a party?”

He laughed politely, which, coming from him? Just sounded gross. “We got a buyer for Mags’s weed,” Devil was talking too smooth, too proud. “Rodney Dunham.”

“Rodney ‘Hot Rod’ Dunham?” she asked. “Out of Memphis?” She said it all innocently, but making sure he knew she wasn’t an idiot. She was getting so tired of these shifty behind the back dealings, ever since Boyd had gotten arrested. “What, with Boyd locked up you thought you could go into business for yourself, you and Arlo?”

“It ain’t even like that,” Devil protested, way too unconcerned for her liking. It pissed her off even more. Tim shifted a little behind her, sensing it.

“What is it like, then?” she kept at it. “Tim and I are somewhat in the dark here-”

Arlo joined them on the porch, grimacing at Ava and Tim’s presence. “Dunham would like a word.”

“Well then send him on out here,” Ava put on her professional smile, sweetened her voice.

“Ava-” Was Devil actually trying to warn her to stay back?

Hell no. “Mr. Dunham,” she stepped forward, warm and friendly. “Ava Crowder.”

He didn’t even look thrown at her introduction, she liked that. “I’m proud to know you,” he even sounded genuine enough.

“Likewise,” she smiled some more. This was a sale, he was a customer. Tim remained silent behind her, no doubt studying Dunham’s men, cataloguing each one for a threat. She didn’t always like when Tim went into Soldier Mode, but she could appreciate why he did. And felt safer for it.

Her attention went back to Dunham as he tore into Devil. “You’ve got mold, mildew, you’ve got rats and mice eating it out in the shed...”

Shit, Boyd wasn’t gonna be happy with this. If all the weed was ruined, that was a lot of money down the drain. Devil, damn him, was actually trying to argue with the man. “No, we got a hundred and twenty kilos of premium weed here.”

Dunham shook his head, surprising Ava with his patience. “Three weeks ago, maybe.”

Ava took a step forward. There had to be a way to salvage this, either the weed or their standing with Dunham. “Maybe there’s-”

“Stay out of this,” Devil snapped, barely taking the time to even look at her.

“Let us handle it, Ava,” Arlo warned her just after.

She glared at them both. _Really?_ She opened her mouth to argue, but felt a hand on her arm, restraining. While Devil started going at Dunham again, she turned to Tim. He shook his head just a little, cautioning. _Hold back. Now now._

And he was right. Not in front of the customer. Boyd would keep his cool, keep trying to make some sort of profit, even if it was just keeping good terms. “Mr. Dunham, we-”

“Ava,” Devil snapped again, moving to stand between her and Dunham, trying to push her away at the same time.

He got half a step. Tim was there, shielding Ava’s side just before Devil would’ve made contact with her sling. He fixed Devil with a look, and everything on the porch seemed to freeze for just a moment. Tim had locked eyes with the other man, seemingly calm, but as a brick wall that wouldn’t move. “Don’t put your hand on her,” he murmured, maybe just for Devil to hear.

Devil pulled back sharply, blinking, and tried to save face by turning back to Dunham. But Ava had already taken advantage of the distraction, stepping up to him again. “Understandable, sir. Thank you for coming by anyway,” she kept her tone appreciative, respectful.

Dunham, for all that he was a weed-slinging criminal, was also a man of respect. He had smirked a little at Tim scaring Devil. “Ma’am,” he shook her hand, not even hesitating at it being the wrong hand with her right still caught up in the sling. He nodded at his men to leave, one last glare for Devil from each of them. Ava had almost let down her demeanor when Dunham paused next to Tim. “You’re a shooter?”

Tim didn’t freeze or flinch, but did frown a little, confused. “’Scuse me?”

Dunham nodded to the tattoo on Tim’s wrist, the rifle visible with his sleeves rolled up. “You were a sniper. With who?”

She could see Tim fight the urge to roll down his sleeves, hide his wrist. “75th.”

Dunham nodded. “Rangers.” Tim nodded back. “1st Battalion?” Another nod. “How many tours?”

His eyes getting narrower and narrower, Tim still managed to answer civilly. Maybe he’d actually picked up some social skills from Ava. “A few in Afghanistan. One outside Baghdad.”

Dunham almost smiled but didn’t. “Good for you, son.” He twisted his own arm, showing off some tattoo Ava couldn’t see. “Did two with the 173rd Airborne, myself.”

Tim looked at the tattoo for a respectful amount of time, looking back up to Dunham with a nod. Dunham did smile then, clapping Tim on the shoulder. “Shit, son you’re still there some, aren’t ya? It’s still in your head.” He chuckled, not waiting for an answer, and left.

“Well,” Ava watched them go, her voice directed specifically at Devil and Arlo, “did that go the way you’d planned?”

“I could use a drink,” Arlo mumbled by way of answer, stubborn as shit of course.

“Amen to that,” Devil was much the same, and she could feel his glare on her as he followed Arlo inside.

Ava stayed where she was. “What are we gonna do with all that weed?” she finally turned to Tim. And stuttered to a stop.

Tim was still watching after Dunham’s exit, one hand twitching, yanking down at his sleeve to cover the tattoo. His jaw was tight, everything else hidden behind his mask. Dark, empty eyes.

_It’s still in your head_ , Dunham had said. Shit. “Tim?” she didn’t touch him, didn’t move. 

He let out a breath slowly, almost hissing through gritted teeth. Purposefully put his hands at his sides, as though he didn’t want to draw any more attention to the ink on his skin. The mark, permanent- 

“You should go talk to Boyd,” he said. She was impressed, she had to admit. He almost sounded like normal, just a little of that brick wall still in his voice. “Tell him what Dunham said.”

Ava nodded. “What about those two?” she nodded towards Arlo’s house, daring to come a little closer to Tim now that he was talking. This was throwing her off a little- Tim had been doing better with all that, he hadn’t gotten up in the middle of the night to wander the house in weeks. Liquor bottles didn't appear and empty out as quick as they used to. This was going to push him right back down, wasn’t it?

As if he’d heard those thoughts, Tim turned to her, face grim but a bit nervous. “You’ll be able to handle yourself with them, right?”

She smiled a little painfully. “You going away for a few days?” It always happened- something random spooked him, took his mind somewhere she couldn’t pinpoint, and he took off.

He shrugged, shuffled his feet some. “Could use some fresh air for a bit. Once Boyd gets out, there’s not gonna be much time for anything but... Boyd.”

“That’s true,” she said carefully. She didn’t want him to go, but she didn’t want him upset, losing sleep, drinking too much either.

He caught the tone, misinterpreting it. “Will you be okay with them-”

“Oh hell, Timmy, I can handle them,” she forced the lightness back into their conversation. “Arlo can’t do shit, and-”

“And Devil-”

“And Devil just needs a firm hand,” she spoke over him, reassuring. “I’ll see what Boyd wants to do and take it from there. Just don’t go too far this time, you hear?”

Tim gave her a smile, the best reassurance he could provide. “I never do.”

***

It was a good day, to be sure. Boyd held himself calm and steady as Tramble’s gate closed behind him, then broke out into a grin. Free man, yet again. And there she was, the most amazing woman in the world, waiting for him. With the sling finally gone, it was like Ava was free again too.

“Baby,” she was grinning too, and hopped off the hood of the truck, her arms already opening to greet him. “What happened to your face?”

“There she is, the apple of my eye,” he rambled happily. “Is it possible that you could be more beautiful?” Boyd gathered her up, spinning them around, kissing her soundly. A man could get used to having this in his life, he surely could. He kissed her again, just because.

She laughed a little, smiled a lot, but didn’t let go of her questioning. “What happened to your face?” Not disapproving, not disbelieving, just curious. Really, the perfect woman.

“Ah, well, you know I don’t play well with others,” he reluctantly set her down, trying to school his face to innocence and failing.

She just smiled, shook her head. “You found out where Dickie’s got his mama’s money?”

He sobered some. Time to talk shop, it seemed. “I did.”

Ava eyed him. “And since you ain’t dancing around this parking lot, I’m gonna guess there’s a ‘but’ coming...”

“ _But_ ,” he obliged, “It’s gonna be harder to get to than I thought.” She raised an eyebrow, waiting, but the gesture reminded Boyd of something else. “Where’s Timothy?”

Ava’s smile faltered just a bit. “Out and about, you know.” She waved a hand around.

Boyd didn’t frown, not wanting to feed into Ava’s worry. That encounter with Dunham that Ava had described must’ve shook Tim up some. It could’ve been anything the man said or did, something sparked a memory or a feeling Tim couldn’t confront. “Has he been taking his cell phone with him now?”

Ava’s smile reappeared at that; it was a rule she had forced upon Tim once he moved in- he had to take his phone with him when he went on his retreats. “Of course.”

“Good,” Boyd nodded. “Call him. We’re going to need his eye for this business, I think.”

“Why? Where’s the money?” she prompted again, linking their hands together as they went to the truck. 

He tugged her closer, knowing this was going to drudge up memories and a whole lot of history. “It’s with Limehouse.”

Ava went still for a moment, but damn if he didn’t love this woman and her infinite well of strength as she gathered herself up with a firm nod. “Guess I better go pay him a visit, then.”

***

She wasn’t the same person she’d been last time she was up at Noble’s Holler, Ava realized it as she watched Limehouse poke and prod at the pig he was cooking. She could feel it, and she was more than pretty sure Limehouse could see it.

“You were coming up here less and less frequent,” he commented. “I’d wrongly assumed he’d stopped beating on you.”

Ava smiled, shook her head. “I just got some extra help at the house.”

Limehouse chewed that over, flipping the meat on the grill. “Well, I realized I was wrong when I heard what you done to your late husband. At the dinner table and everything.” There may have been a note of pride, but she’d never be sure.

She also was never sure how he knew so much, so she just played along. “Shame in it was wasting all that ham.” (It had been fried chicken, but Limehouse was a hog man. He’d like it better that way.)

Sure enough, he chuckled. “And here I was thinking the shame in it was we’d see your shining face around here a lot less.”

“That’s sweet, Mr. Limehouse,” she smiled genuinely. He was a confusing trickster of a man- more than Boyd was, more than anyone- but there were some things he was always real about.

“I’m surprised you didn’t bring that pit bull with you up here tonight,” he mused.

And trickster again. “Pit bull?”

He smiled, showing his teeth. “Your guard dog kid who tries to look after you, the one who shot the late Sheriff Bennett.”

Tim. For some reason, she was startled that Limehouse knew about Tim. And that yet another person was calling Tim the Crowder guard dog. It made her nervous, though she couldn’t exactly pinpoint why. Maybe she wanted to keep Tim away from attention as much as she could. Because now people knew him- and their weakness for each other. It wasn't really a weakness; it was a vulnerability. In this world, those were the same thing.

Limehouse continued, unaware (or very aware) of her internal worry. “That boy seems to have a world of anger in him. You know pit bulls can be dangerous, girl.”

“I don’t think-” Ava frowned, defensive.

He waved at her argument. “But they can be good, loyal dogs in the right home.” He looked at her sideways. “I may never trust a white man with an affinity for gunplay, but I can see you do.”

He was giving her an opening. Ava took it. “Tim did the same for me that you did. Protection without question.” She hesitated, then added, “Made my home safe again.”

Limehouse really looked at her for that. “Like a guard dog.”

“Not like-” she started to protest, vehement, forgetting why she was there in the first place, but Limehouse just smiled again. She stopped. She couldn’t tell if it was a reassuring smile- he got what Tim meant to her- or a trickster smile- he didn’t care and never would. Either way, she’d be wasting her breath talking about it.

“New confidence, new friends,” he listed off. “And I hear you got yourself a new boyfriend too.”

Boyfriend seemed like too trivial a word for someone like Boyd, too girly, too cheap, but she let it go. “Funny, that’s why I’m here.” She waited for Limehouse to look over at her again, curious. She steeled herself, professional smile in place. “I think you two should meet.”

***

Boyd looked down to hide the grin on his face when Tim shifted again, very obviously forcing himself not to pull the gun from his back pocket. “Timothy. Relax.” He said it quietly enough for just him to hear.

Tim glared at him, probably instinctively. “No.”

He almost laughed, but didn’t want Devil to hear. He wanted him to think he was still (rightly) pissed at him and Arlo. “She’ll be fine.”

His glare didn’t go away. Tim glanced back at the truck where Devil was still sitting and grumbling, then back at Boyd. “She’s by herself.”

“Not entirely,” Boyd assured. “Limehouse ain’t gonna hurt her. She’s probably safer up there in the holler then she is most anywhere else.” And perhaps they should have had her come here during the Bennett debacle instead of trying to hide her in the basement, he realized. Hindsight was never really his friend or compatriot, that was for sure.

Tim was still frowning, twitching. Boyd made a show of stretching, leaning against the truck, hiding his grin again when Tim caught him and glared even more. “You do realize we’re not gonna be the only people going after that money, right?”

Boyd nodded, both to answer the question and to accept Tim’s change of subject. He decided to gloss on over the fact that Tim had actually said ‘we’ and therefore included himself in the group. “I am, however, counting on our head start being a deciding factor on the matter.”

Tim’s eyes started to narrow, the way he got when he was puzzling something over. “Have to think Dickie’s gonna tell other people the same thing he told you.”

“Like who, Dewey Crowe?” Boyd kept an eye trained on the other side of the bridge, waiting for signs of Ava and (hopefully) Mr. Limehouse.

“You better pray not,” Tim smirked. “If Dewey knows, everyone’ll know.”

“Well,” Boyd stretched again, “I’m not much for praying these days. And yes, chances are that Dickie Bennett’s mouth will run to other people’s ears as well. Which means we have to be fast, and we have to be smart.”

Tim nodded, glancing back at where Devil was sitting in the truck. “Oh. Great.” 

Boyd laughed as quietly as he could. “Ava will come through.” Tim nodded again, glanced at him, brow furrowing for a moment before smoothing away. Boyd waited, and waited, then decided to bring it up since Tim wouldn’t. “You worried about Ava being involved in my activities?” Worried, disapproving, downright angry- Boyd needed to know.

Tim took his time answering, making Boyd wait some more. “She said, just a few days ago, she said that you’re always gonna do what you think is best.”

“And you suppose she’s the same way?” Boyd guessed.

He shrugged. Which meant yes. “She believes in you.”

Boyd knew that, he did. Still, hearing it out loud, especially from this young man, was something else. He ducked his head a bit again, trying to hide the pleased smile. Judging by Tim’s eye roll and sigh, he was unsuccessful. “None of that really answers my question, Timothy,” he pointed out, mostly just to regain the higher ground.

“I’m pretty sure you already know my answer, Boyd,” Tim said right back. “Worried? ’Course I am. But it’s... it’s not like I don’t know you’re going to protect her as best you can.”

He kept smiling. “I occasionally direct a similar line of thoughts towards you, you know.”

Tim shut him up with a look- now was not the time for that (if Tim had any say, it probably never would be). “If I disapproved of the line of work, I wouldn’t be in it. So,” he waved a hand around at nothing. “There’s that.”

“So what exactly is it that’s troubling you? You can lie and say nothing, if you’d like. Then I’ll lie and say I believe you,” he made sure his voice was as solicitous as possible.

Tim grunted. “So kind of you.” And then he fell quiet again, looking out across the bridge.

“Tim?” Boyd prompted. He could see lights up ahead, a car or two. Ava on her way back with Limehouse.

He was puzzling something out, one side of his face scrunching up in a surprisingly childish gesture. “I’m trying to think of the right saying.”

Two trucks appeared over the hill, approaching the bridge. Behind them, Devil finally got out of the car, his shotgun ready. Boyd gestured for him to keep it pointed down. “Which one?” he kept his eyes on the bridge, his focus on Tim.

Tim’s rifle was still leaning against the front of the truck. Instead of reaching for it, he nodded towards the lead truck as it parked on the other side of the bridge, relaxing a fraction when Ava got out of the passenger seat. “‘Ain’t nobody’s hands clean in what’s left of this world.’”

And Boyd got it. Tim knew where he stood in this world, he knew where Boyd stood. What they were capable of. Where their lines were. How far they could go. But for all that, he didn’t know where Ava stood in these matters.

And the funny thing was, neither did Boyd. But he was saved from admitting that- and from trying to guess who said the quote- by Ava herself, leading Ellstin Limehouse across the bridge. Boyd brushed imaginary dirt off his jacket and moved forward to meet them. Time to do business.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a carpetbagger stirs up trouble, and Tim calls up an old friend.

_Ain’t nobody’s hands clean in what’s left of this world._

The quote- it was Bukowski, Boyd knew that now- continued to pop back in his head at the most random of times. Right now, ironically and fittingly, it was as he washed his hands. He pushed those thoughts away yet again, drying his hands, and kept his back to the rest of the kitchen as he spoke. “We’re going to do things differently now.”

"I'm not gonna do things same as my daddy," he said as he finally turned. Even he had to admit, it was a bit of a motley crew. They were in Arlo’s kitchen, the house finally cleared of the ruined weed, the last of Limehouse’s men driving off with it. Arlo and Devil sat at the table, both probably still grumbling about the weed. Tim was leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, his ‘I am prepared for anything’ expression on his face.

"What's that mean?" Arlo glared down at his drink, ornery just for the sake of being ornery.

Boyd just smiled. "Ava, would you come in here, please?" She was a part of this, and it was damn well time Arlo and Devil accepted that.

The TV in the other room shut off and Ava sauntered in, as though she'd expected is the whole time. Squeezing Tim's arm as she passed him, she took a seat at the table across from Devil. He and Arlo said nothing.

Boyd waited for her to sit before joining them. "I won't be making the same mistakes as my daddy. Everything we do and supply- pills, protection-" he glanced at Tim pointedly, "-gambling, whatever else? It stays right here in Harlan. No work outside our own people."

Everyone nodded, understood. Which was good, the first step. Even Tim, who kept his perimeter spot in the doorway, in most doorways, in the world it seemed, understood that. Probably welcomed it.

"It also means we do things clean from now on. No more smash and grabs," he looked directly at Devil, "and no more bad decisions." Stressing his point, "We can't afford that anymore."

Devil stared back at him, and for a moment it all came down to that- if Devil was backing him or not. He needed to know now, if Devil was in his camp or if he needed to be taken out back. So to speak.

Devil's eyebrows worked up and down, disgruntled but not disagreeing. A moment later- a moment in which Boyd could _feel_ Tim start to shift into a ready stance- Devil nodded, settled back in his chair.

Boyd nodded back, wondering if it was foolish to hope that would be the last of Devil's mutinous ways. Only time would tell, he supposed. Back to the kitchen at large, "Now, we are starting this together. A joint venture. But y'all have to be behind me on this, I need each and every one of you. Only way this is going to succeed. Everyone sitting at this table is in it together in service of the almighty dollar, am I right?"

That drew a grin from Devil, as he knew it would. And Arlo's eyes were more alert, that shrewd Givens glare coming forth. Ava was already alert, already shrewd, and Byod could almost see her planning how to earn her share. (The perfect woman, could he ever say that enough?)

The only person not actually sitting at the table was Tim, but Boyd didn't bother looking over to him to check for his agreement. He knew Tim wouldn't want that- Boyd's focus on him would mean everyone's focus would be on him, and he hated that. 

And for another interesting puzzle, Boyd was fairly sure Tim's loyalty here wasn't to that almighty dollar. Money was never the center target to appear in Tim's eyes. Not that Tim would ever say such or Boyd would ever ask.

He nodded again, to all of them, breathing a little easier now that the group- at least for now- felt cohesive, felt like _his_. "All right then. Today's business is very simple. Reclaiming something that rightfully belongs to the Crowder family."

Devil's grin widened. He knew exactly what that entailed, and near-scampered off to join Johnny in preparation. 

It wasn't until they cleared out of Arlo's house and started the drive home that Ava spoke up. "You think this is all gonna work?"

Boyd glanced at her for a moment, but she kept her own eyes forward. "I have to think so."

She nodded, her fingers playing with the seat belt strap. It rested across her shoulder exactly where the sling had, and Boyd had to wonder if Ava noticed that too. "I don't know who I'm most worried about, to be honest."

"Well, who are your top candidates at the moment?" he kept his voice light and easy, hoping to assuage some of her concern.

"You know how I feel about Arlo and Devil doing what they did," she murmured. "They've been better since my frying pan knocked some sense into him, but..." she trailed off.

"They're on my crew now, baby," he tried to pacify her nerves. "They'll know better than to doubt you or your place."

"It's not my place I'm worried about them going after, Boyd," she sighed. "How long before Devil goes behind your back again? You think he and Arlo, Johnny, won't ditch you at the first dollar sign that flashes their way?"

"Not now, they won't," Boyd was firm in this. Confident. "They know to follow me. They know what I'm capable of, Ava. And they know I mean to make them some profit. Devil might’ve been a problem, but he won’t be now. Johnny and Arlo... they’re family or close enough to it. They wouldn’t."

She was still quiet. "I hope you're right, but..." another sigh, another shake of her head. "I don't trust them, don't really want to either."

"You don't have to," he smiled. "I'm not throwing all my eggs in their baskets either. That's why I've got you, why I've got Tim. We're going to be just fine."

Her hand snuck into his while he spoke, squeezing. "That's not the only reason you got me."

He smiled some more, down at the steering wheel. "I surely hope not."

"You know you have to be careful, though, right? With Mags gone..." Ava bit at her lip. "This whole place is open season. You ain't gonna be the only one trying to make moves."

"Your roommate said much the same thing," he grinned happily when she smacked his shoulder at that. "And I'm aware of that, too. But none of those other villains are us. So by that fact alone, we're already with the advantage, are we not?"

Ava glanced into the side mirror at Tim's truck behind them. "I suppose."

He squeezed her hand this time. "I am trying to keep him here."

"What?" she turned away, towards him, confused.

"Timothy," he gave his own look back into the mirror, watching as the truck made a turn out of sight. "I figured, if I gave him enough to do, gave him some... direction, some purpose, then just maybe he'd stick around permanently and not worry you so much."

Ava smiled. "Worry _us_ so much," she corrected. 

Boyd kept his face expressionless, innocent. "What worries you of course worries me," he said diplomatically. 

She was not fooled, as he knew she wouldn't be. "Worries us," she said again, smiling easier.

Boyd didn't argue, mainly because his goal had been to bring that smile about. Only a little because she was right.

***

He'd dropped Ava off at home and driven straight to the bar. Devil was there waiting for him in the parking lot, giving him a quick, excited nod. Everything- everyone- was in place.

Boyd slipped into his full 'Boyd Crowder' persona. All brash swaggering and preacher voice, all confidence, all bulletproof and powerful. Nothing could touch this Boyd Crowder, ain't anything in the world that could get in his way. And right now, his way was all about getting his cousin's bar back.

"I think it's time for you to leave," the bartender pulled a bat out from under the bar, brandishing it in a way Boyd was sure was supposed to be threatening. 

Devil was equally unimpressed. "Look at this asshole, bringing a baseball bat to a gunfight," he seemed delighted at the idea, drawing his .45.

Boyd did the same, smiling peaceably at the man. "Now, we can take this bar back in a civilized manner, or Devil here can send you to the hospital. It's entirely up to you."

The bartender wasn't about to go quietly. Understandable, foolish as it was. "How about Option C," he spat out. Two men stood up from a table behind them. "Have you met my friends?"

Boyd felt a muzzle touch the back of his head, didn't have to look to know Devil was experiencing quite the same. He kept his eyes and his gun on the bartender. "No, have you met mine?"

The only other two men in the bar stood up too- Tim and a young man Johnny had pulled in for the operation. Their guns easily covered the bartender's guys, and the young man- Jimmy- whooped as weapons were dropped to the floor.

The door to the bar opened, and Boyd looked back to see Johnny make his entrance, also catching Tim's very internal eyeroll at Jimmy's antics. There wasn't an eyeroll to actually see, but Boyd knew it was there. He smiled a little for it.

"I'd be careful now," Johnny's voice was tight and angry. He wheeled himself closer, gun laid nice and easy across his lap. "Jimmy here is a mite unpredictable, and Tim..." he grinned. Sort of. "Tim's about the meanest son of a bitch behind a gun in the state of Kentucky."

The bartender's eyes narrowed and widened in quick succession, which Boyd took note of. It seemed Tim's reputation was finally preceding him some. He was pleased by the idea, it would make selling protection in the county so much easier. He also decided in that second to keep this bit of news from Ava's ears. She was nervous enough for Tim as it was. 

Tim, for his part, didn't appear to notice the bartender's reaction. But then, he was always more focused on guns if they were in play. He had lowered his gun when the bartender and his interlopers cleared out, but didn't holster it. He never holstered unless he had to. He never sat down unless he had to either.

Boyd eased over to him in the corner by the door, leaving Johnny to direct Devil and the rest of the posse on what to do with the bar. "Keeping lookout?" he smirked a little.

Tim patiently raised an eyebrow. "Never assume a fight's over just because you can't see the enemy anymore," he lectured, voice at a drawl but eyes at alert. That air of 'I'm so bored but I know what the fuck I'm talking about.' Boyd was certain Tim was the only one he'd ever met who could exude that without words, without even actions. Just air.

So he nodded, conceding the point. "Fair enough." He attempted to copy Tim's stance, leaned back against the wall so he was able to survey the whole kingdom. "You good with this- Johnny bringing in these guys?"

Tim shrugged. "The question should be if you are, not me." 

"I've already asked myself and gotten an answer, thank you. Now I'm asking you," he turned his shoulder, shifting to face Tim, giving them some semblance of privacy. 

Tim didn't sigh. He just gave that look of wanting to sigh. "It makes sense."

"I reckon that is a wonderful observation, Timothy, very thoughtful. Now how about you actually answer my question." Boyd wasn't about to let is go, he needed to know. He either needed confirmation of his own thoughts or a proper counterpoint.

Another look-sigh. "I'd need more time with them before making judgment," he shrugged, gestured to the men now celebrating with available liquor. "They seem eager enough, that's probably good.”

“Probably?”

“Could mean loyalty, could mean trigger-happy assholes. Like the grunts who’d shoot at the first sign of turban, not caring who’s underneath. I don't know yet."

"But I can count on you to keep an eye on the situation, and let me know if they sway either way?" Boyd asked.

"Of course," Tim didn't roll his eyes now, the answer obvious to him. 

"Would you be willing to do more than that?" Boyd took Tim's answer as the encouragement he needed to proceed.

Tim eyed him cautiously for a moment before going back to sweeping his eyes across the door and bar. "More what?"

"Chain of command, Timothy. I need a second. A, if you will excuse the irony of the term, a deputy." He took Tim's smirk as more encouragement. "I need someone I can trust in that position. Ain't nobody here I trust so well as you."

Tim sort of stuttered at that, always surprised. Boyd kept quiet, giving him the time and silence to think. And he was honestly surprised when Tim shook his head. "I can't. Sorry, but..." he stopped, looking about as unsure as Boyd had seen him in awhile.

He reined in any emotion he might be feeling, gave them both another minute. He hadn't planned on Tim saying no and wasn't sure what to do now. "May I ask why?"

Tim screwed up the side of his face, uncomfortable. Boyd wasn't used to Tim looking so out of his element. "I can't be... it's not for me."

He'd said something similar months ago, about moving in with Ava. Boyd ran with that connection and his assumptions because of it. "You feel it isn't your place?"

He got another shrug in return, a self-deprecating expression that bordered on a smile. "It's not my thing, okay? I'm not trained for it. I'm a shooter, Boyd. That's it."

"That's truly not 'it'," Boyd argued quietly. "Are you unable or maybe uneasy to get so involved in my activities?" he tried guessing. "I'm not sure which."

Tim took his time answering. "I’m not sure either," he attempted another smile. "But I guess it's one of the two." His face took a turn for the serious, genuine. Adamant. "Not that I'm against you Boyd, you know I'm not."

Boyd nodded, understanding that. Truth be told, he was more surprised at his own reaction- disappointment, not anger- than anything else. "Either way, you're important to this enterprise. You and your rifle go along way in selling our protection services."

The compliment, half-hearted as it was, fell flat. Boyd could see it. He could see Tim try to hide it, but the uneasiness, the uncertainty, it was there filling him up. "Yeah. I know."

And maybe that was part of why Tim couldn't be his second in command. He'd said it months ago, hadn't he? He couldn't go back to war. And Boyd respected that, knew how much Tim still struggled with what he'd been through. He could admit he cared enough about Tim that he didn't want him to struggle with any more of it either, least all because of him.

He turned his shoulder even more. "You're not that to Ava and myself," he said quietly, firmly. "You're more than that to us, you understand that, right?"

Tim was still quiet, still on the lookout, but the nod he gave was smooth, maybe relieved. His shoulders unhitched from their tense position, just enough for Boyd to notice.

He continued, "And as far as this business goes, I need your eyes and mind around too. No matter the role you take up. I've got a place for you here for as long as you want one."

Tim nodded again. "Well, least now I don't feel like I just turned down your marriage proposal or some shit," he muttered. Boyd wasn't sure if he was supposed to hear that or not, so he just chuckled and eased away some. "Who you gonna deputize instead?" Tim's voice had gained a little of its dry quality back.

Boyd considered the options, back to surveying the room. "Cousin Johnny, most likely. He knew how to run my daddy's business as well as my daddy did, most times." He nodded to himself. "I may not trust these men as much as I do you, but I have to keep them close right now. The alternatives are-"

"Are shitty," Tim finished for him. "Really shitty."

Boyd nodded again, cast his eyes around to the back office. He wondered- he hoped- that that one couch with all the cushions and box springs attached was still in there. "Indeed."

***

Raylan was just stepping up to the open doorway when he heard Boyd's voice calling out theatrically, "-as I'm sensing a disturbance in the Force just now. Raylan Givens!"

He put on his most at ease smirk as he entered the bar. "Boyd." He wondered who Boyd saw himself as in the Star Wars universe. Raylan was obviously Han Solo, and he wouldn't hear any bullshit saying otherwise. Boyd, he was probably Lando. Without the whole redemption story in the third movie with the Muppet teddy bear things.

He took in the presence of the whole gang as they took in his- Devil and Johnny Crowder by the pool tables, a couple of lackeys at the tables nearby, Tim pouring drinks for himself and Boyd behind the bar, sweeping what looked like a few piles of cash back out of sight below the counter. They shared a quick nod, more a look of acknowledgment than anything else, and then Raylan turned back to Lando.

“So I was up at Noble’s Holler this morning.”

He could’ve laughed, he wanted to, at the way everyone reacted to that. Devil and Johnny immediately tensed, as of course he knew they would. He continued to test the waters by talking about Limehouse, watching the two get more and more shifty. Tim glared more at them than at him, shaking his head, turning back to the liquor. Unconcerned. Raylan had expected that too.

Boyd’s face was schooled to innocence, eyebrows raised just enough to seem so bewildered by what Raylan was saying. “Boys, if you’ll give us a minute to converse,” he nodded to his men, sending Johnny a look Raylan couldn’t quite decipher, but he assumed meant ‘hold down the fort’ or something thereabouts. 

So. Johnny Crowder was the vice president of this gang? Interesting.

Raylan nodded again, dared to tip his hat genially, and followed Boyd into the back office. “So this is your headquarters now?”

“Well I just don’t know what you mean, Deputy Givens,” Boyd smiled, serene and maybe even hospitable. “Is that why you came by now? To reminisce about the Limehouse family, or to wish me a good grand opening of the Crowder family bar?”

Raylan shook his head, telling himself to get down to business, telling himself he needed to talk to Boyd about this bit of business. “Dickie Bennett busted out of Tramble this morning.”

Boyd froze, his theatrics gone. Frowning, he leaned back to sit on the edge of his (Raylan assumed it was his) desk. “Please tell me you’re not here to see if I know where he is.” There was a note of real anger, warning in the tone. 

“No,” Raylan admitted, foregoing the banter or bite he’d usually give. “Just giving you the heads up, as he may be going for Mags’s money. And, as an additional heads up, Dewey Crowe is with him.”

“Ah,” Boyd chuckled, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “And if I should happen to hear from him, you’d like me to let you know.”

“Hey, look how that worked out,” Raylan pretended to be surprised.

Boyd frowned again, back to the subject at hand. “Don’t tell Tim.”

“Excuse me?” Raylan blinked, surprised- actually surprised- by the request. (Or demand, but Raylan chose to see it as a request.)

Boyd was as serious as he got, eyes fixed steadily on Raylan’s. “Don’t tell Tim about Dickie. There’s no telling if he’d try to go after him or...” Boyd shook his head. “I’d have to keep an extra eye on him, and I don’t have many eyes to spare.”

Raylan studied Boyd for a moment, still surprised. “What is it, you need a shooter that badly? Or Ava will leave you if something happens to him?” He shook his head. “What’s a lowlife criminal like you got on that kid that you have to keep him so close?”

Boyd’s hard stare got harder, angry again. “Don’t. Tell. Tim.” He opened his mouth again, shut it quickly, opened it again. “In exchange for your compliance in that, I’ll give... I may have some information that could useful to your manhunt.”

That was better. That was something Raylan could understand, an exchange of information for personal gain. That was the Boyd he knew, the Lando. “Yeah?”

“There was a guard at Tramble,” he began, and Raylan could already see where it this was going. “Everyone inside knew he was the one to talk to when you needed something through unofficial channels.”

Raylan ingested that for what it was, nodded. “He got a name?”

“If I tell you,” Boyd said slowly, “will you leave Tim and Ava out of whatever troubles Dickie gets himself caught up in?”

He took a deep breath, nodded again, gesturing for Boyd to proceed. “Guard’s name?”

“Ash Murphy,” Boyd supplied after only a slight hesitation. Like he didn’t want to help Raylan, like he was ready for _Raylan_ to let _him_ down.

Which was bullshit, because Raylan was pretty sure Han Solo was the good guy, not the other way around.

***

Tim wasn’t really used to being on this side of the bar. He was used to falling down drunk on the other side, that was for sure. But cleaning up and pouring drinks behind it... It was strange. He wasn’t sure if it was a good strange or a bad one yet, but it was definitely one of the two.

He wiped down the bar again, keeping his head down, listening to the murmur of voices coming from the back room. His gun was on the shelf just below the bar, just in easy reach, just in case. If things went sour back there, he’d be ready.

He wasn’t sure why he was so surprised it had come to this.

_One hour earlier..._

_“Boyd.”_

_Tim looked up from his drink, lazy and unconcerned, but tensed the moment he saw Johnny’s face. Whatever was about to be said, wasn’t gonna be anything good._

_“Cousin Johnny,” Boyd greeted back, seemingly at ease, but with the same set to his shoulders Tim could feel in his own. “Something you need to discuss?”_

_Johnny glanced at Tim for a second, maybe debating his presence, but shrugged it off and turned back to Boyd. “In about an hour, Devil’s going to come here to kill you.”_

_Well, it had dramatic effect, Tim had to admit that. He set his glass of bourbon back on the bar with a thunk, looking to Boyd for a reaction. Boyd’s eyes were narrowed, every other part of him still. More than still. It didn’t feel quiet in the bar, it didn’t even feel silent. It was like a black hole suddenly swallowed up all sound. Tim waited._

_“Would you like to tell me the rest of that story?” he finally not-requested, jaw set and firm. No twitching, no vibrating anger, but Tim would say he was about as far from ‘calm’ as a man could get._

_“He decided to line himself up with some big names in Frankfort,” Johnny was surprisingly contrite with this. Apologetic. Tim didn’t know he had it in him._

_“And killing me is his initiation into the big leagues?” Boyd was leaning forward now, hands braced on the top of the bar, head down. Angry or plotting, or probably both._

_“Something like that,” Johnny dared to wheel himself closer. “He came to me, wants me to join him.”_

_“Well, my feelings are hurt,” Tim murmured, picking up his glass again to finish it off._

_“_ Your _feelings are hurt,” Boyd said right back, shaking his head. “_ I’m _the one he wants to kill.” He finally looked up, some sort of decision made. “Dixie Mafia, I assume?”_

_“Mafia, maybe. Dixie, maybe not,” Johnny answered. “Sounded like some guy from Detroit, making moves with a Dixie contractor.”_

_“Someone I haven’t crossed paths with?” Boyd was surprised. “My reputation stretches that far?”_

_Wynn Duffy, Tim’s brain suddenly supplied. That was the name Raylan had mentioned at the range. Nix had worked with Dixie Mafia, and Raylan had immediately named Wynn Duffy. Tim would have to look into it now, wait to tell Boyd until he had something to go on. Might as well fight the battle they currently had with the Mafia, not start an unnecessary war._

_Tim flinched at his own words._

_“You’re gonna kill him, aren’t you?” he asked Boyd._

_Boyd looked at him, the first time they’d locked eyes since Johnny came in. Boyd’s resolve, his mastermind, fearless leader resolve, was there in the forefront. But there was more behind it. Real betrayal, disappointment. Boyd really had thought Devil was in his corner. He nodded to Tim’s question._

_“What choice do we have?” Johnny added. His direction really did change with the wind, Tim realized. He was on their side now, but Tim wondered how much of him had considered Devil’s offer._

_Tim nodded to both of them, looked back at Boyd. “Want me to do it?” he asked, steady and calm. He could do this; he’d trained for it. He could stake out a hide by Devil’s place, one shot, he could even make it look like a robbery or Dixie Mafia hit. Sheriff’s office would be happy to pin it on-_

_“No,” Boyd was looking down at his hands again. “I have to.”_

_Tim raised an eyebrow slightly._ You sure? _Boyd nodded to it. “Okay.”_

_Boyd turned back to Johnny. “This man who set up the proposition in Frankfort. You got a name?”_

_“Quail or Quarter or something,” Johnny shrugged. “Tanner Dodd set it up, we can beat some details out of him anytime.”_

_Tanner Dodd. The pill pusher. Christ, this got worse and worse. Devil was a small-time redneck crook, but was he really stupid enough to align himself with someone as reckless and stupid as Tanner? Or did Devil really have such little confidence in Boyd’s plans?_

_A glance at Boyd told Tim he was wondering the same thing. “So, not only is this Detroit man a threat to our operations, extending his hands into Harlan, but he’s managed to reveal just how very weak we still are,” he looked to Tim for agreement, or comfort, or something._

_Tim shrugged. “We’re still getting off the ground.”_

_“With only a few men, and we just lost one of ’em,” Boyd shook his head. “It’ll be mighty hard to sell our status if we have none.”_

_Tim wasn’t so discouraged. “And if you’d tried to go too big too fast, you’d have more men to kill for desertion right now.”_

_Boyd sighed, though Tim wasn’t sure if he was conceding the point or not. He turned to his cousin instead. “Go meet with Devil. Have him bring you here with him. I’ll do the rest.”_

_Johnny nodded, “Back in a few,” and wheeled himself out._

_Boyd let out another sigh, poured another drink for Tim, another for himself. “A cripple, a woman, a senior citizen, you and me.” He toasted. “That’s our dream team.”_

_Tim toasted back. “Ain’t ideal, but it ain’t the worst either.” He tilted his head. “Besides, every person you just listed has killed at least one man. That’s something.”_

_Boyd chuckled darkly. “Nice of you to see on the bright side of things, Timothy.” They toasted each other again. “What do you suppose I should do about Frankfort?”_

_Tim mulled it over, swirling the last of his drink in his glass. “Send a message, I suppose.”_

_Boyd picked up a rag, wiping down the bar aimlessly. “May have to do more than that, but a dead body’s a good start as any.”_

_Tim snorted. “Sure.” They finished their drinks in silence, then Tim spoke up again. “Where do you want me?”_

_Boyd had obviously already thought that through. “Right here.” He tapped the bar. “He’ll suspect something if you’re in the room with us. But stay close, keep your gun closer. In case he-” Boyd gestured at nothing. “He gets the better of me, he’ll go after you next. Be ready.” He swallowed harder than normal. “He gets past you, he may go after Ava.”_

_Tim just nodded. “Then don’t let him get past you.”_

_Boyd smiled. “Sound advice.”_

 

And now Devil and Johnny were in the back office with Boyd, and Tim was wiping down a bar that was already clean three times over.

The voices got louder then, escalating quickly, and then there was a single shot. Tim didn’t flinch at that, just listened, hand on his gun. No running, no hollering, so Tim didn’t move. He listened some more. Holding still and at the ready, he know how to do that. He knew each point of the bar he could use for cover, where every possible exit was, where there were two other guns and three boxes of ammo hidden. Still and at the ready.

There was a shout now, more o a scream, pain and and anger and fear and- a gunshot silenced it all. The shot and the scream echoed through the bar for just an extra second, and in that second Tim was suddenly--

 

It was too windy, kicking up sand and dust devils, bits of dead grass. Everything was yellowed, dirt mixing with the sunlight, surrounding like a curtain. Everywhere, almost claustrophobic. It looked like a word of cigarette smoke, he remembered thinking, and tasted just as bitter. From his perch he couldn’t see much more than his target and the shitty, rusty car he was standing beside.

He was arguing with another man, shouting, waving wildly. Tim couldn’t tell what it was about; his Pashto was getting better, but not great. Maybe-

Nope. Definitely wasn’t a friendly squabble. The second man pulled a knife out of his kameez and stabbed Tim’s target in the stomach, a long, wide gash across. A small and detached part of Tim’s brain was angry- that was _Tim’s_ kill, no one else’s.

The target was screaming, bleeding from his gut and his mouth now. Suffering, a small voice informed the rest of Tim’s brain. The rest of Tim’s brain told the small voice to shut the fuck up.

He and his spotter had already called it in and were just waiting for the go ahead. Stuck there, watching the man bleed, cry, beg for any help as he tried to hold organs and guts inside. Like he could still be saved. Tim waited for permission to put him out of his misery.

His shot cut off what was probably the target’s last, half-hearted scream.

 

\--The front door of the bar slammed shut, dragging Tim roughly back to the present. His hands were shaking. _Shit_ , that one sucked. He grabbed for the bourbon as he sent a quick nod to Arlo walking in.

“Is it done?” the man asked, his god-awful accent pulling Tim a bit more out of his head, thank God.

He nodded again. Poured himself a drink and, feeling still a bit grateful for Arlo snapping him out of a memory, poured him a drink as well. Arlo didn’t thank him, but he didn’t act surprised by the nice gesture either, so Tim was fine with that. By the time Boyd and Johnny came out to the bar, Boyd dragging a body bag, Tim’s drink was gone, his hands steady. “Need help disposing?” his voice was steady too.

Boyd opened his mouth, a nod starting, but (shocking them all) Arlo knocked back the rest of his drink and stood. “I’ll go.”

They all stared at him. Arlo didn’t care. “I’d like to discuss some things with you, Boyd,” his voice was grating on Tim’s ears again, which meant he was back to himself. Good. Boyd sent him a questioning look, and Tim nodded and shrugged at the same time. Not like he _wanted_ to bury a body, he was just offering.

Leaving the bar- ridiculously clean- to Johnny, Tim followed Boyd and and Arlo out to the parking lot, helped them lift the body into the truck, and watched them drive off. He put two fingers to his forehead and offered a half-sardonic salute. So long, Devil. He’d worked side by side with the man, but he wasn’t going to pretend he didn’t know Devil would’ve killed him if he had the chance. No honor amongst thieves and white supremacists from Kentucky, Tim supposed.

He took a few deep breaths of fresh air, still slightly unsettled by the flashback, relieved when there was no trace of smoke or motor oil (or gun oil) in the taste of it. Then he pulled out his phone and dialed a number he hadn’t thought about it more than a year.

It picked up after the third ring, just like he remembered. “Go for Agent Hughes.”

He snorted. “That’s how you answer the phone now?”

There was a very weighted pause. “...Tim?”

His clever greeting done with, now he just felt awkward. “Hey.”

“What the f- Hold on.” There was another pause, then all the background noise faded away. She probably went into her office, shut the door. “Tim?”

“Yep.”

“Okay. What the _fuck_? Where have you been?” He could practically picture Sarah, flipping her hair back off her shoulders all business-like, narrowing her eyes. One hand on her hip.

“Kentucky,” he decided to be as truthful as he felt comfortable with, which apparently meant state lines. “You in a satellite office still?”

“D.C.” She still sounded annoyed, suspicious. “Are you in trouble? Is that why you’re calling-”

“Jesus, Sarah, maybe I just wanted to say hi-”

“Bullshit, you haven’t called me or Jeremy in a _year_ , Tim. We were sure you’d re-enlisted under a fake name or drank yourself off a cliff at the Grand Canyon.”

He tilted his head at that. “Why the Grand Canyon?”

“Why are you calling me?” she repeated.

He fidgeted, glad she couldn’t see him. “I need some help.” Cutting off her expectant groan, “But it’s not what you think. I need some information.”

“Information only one of your friends at the FBI can provide?” she clarified.

“You’re my only friend at the FBI,” he countered.

“I’m your only friend, period.”

He almost wanted to introduce her to Ava and Boyd, just out of spite. But he wasn’t ready to share that part of his life yet. Or, really, acknowledge that it was there. “Your brother’s my friend.”

“Jeremy is weak-willed and easily manipulated by poor orphans,” Sarah wasn’t done being pissed off, apparently.

He rolled his eyes. “I ain’t exactly Oliver Twist.”

She was quiet for a good five seconds. “What do you need, Dickens?” He wasn’t totally sure, but she may have emphasized the first syllable of that name a little too much.

He fidgeted again, never comfortable asking for help. “There’s a crime... well, syndicate might be a little generous, but whatever. In Frankfort, Kentucky. Dixie Mafia.”

“And?”

“And I sorta need to know about a man involved in it. Wynn Duffy. I’m assuming that’s his real name, because who’d want to change it to that?”

Sarah may have laughed, but disguised it well. “And why should I help you?”

“Because,” Tim fished for an answer. “You and I had that thing together.”

“What thing?”

“Where I saved your brother’s life and you’re eternally grateful?”

He could feel her glare through the phone. “Oh sure, play the Almost Dead Brother Card.”

“Sarah,” he steeled himself. “Please.”

She was quiet again, but it was a less combative silence. “Fine. Okay. But in return-” of course “-will you please call Jeremy, let him know you’re alive and... seemingly okay?”

“He’s stateside?” Tim asked instead of answered. He knew lots of guys stayed in touch, still hung out, after their service, but Tim... well, the ones doing better than him, it was hard to look them in the eye. He was better with the other fuckups. Jeremy had never been a fuckup.

“Transferring to CID,” Sarah tugged him back to the conversation. “Sleeping on my couch right now till he finds a place of his own.”

Tim nodded, even though she couldn’t see it. “Good for him.” And wasn’t that a funny fucking mirror- sleeping on big sister’s couch until he... found a place? Self-awareness fucking sucked.

“Call him,” Sarah ordered. “I’ll look into your friend, and I’ll give you a call back once I’ve heard from Jeremy about your heartfelt, tearful phone call reunion.”

His turn to glare. “Yes ma’am.”

“Good. Tim...” she paused, weighted again. “Don’t go away like that anymore.” Then she hung up on him. Getting the last word. He hated that.

He held his phone in hand, alone again. Him and his thoughts, fucked up as they always were. Sarah and Jeremy, they weren’t part of this life. _His_ life.

Resolutely, he slipped the phone into his pocket. Now wasn’t the time for that phone call anyway. Boyd was going to want to go after Tanner next, find the boss man above him. Tim had to be ready.

***

Boyd swept his eyes across the bar one more time, as though something or someone might be out of place. Arlo and Johnny sat at different tables, spread out. Jimmy was by the door, Tim by the bar. All exits, all lines of sight covered. Maybe there were weak and small-time, but they knew what they were doing. This would be fine.

Robert Quarles was and wasn’t exactly what Boyd was expecting. Not so much sauntering as slithering in, suit and hair shining almost to distraction, ordering a Pappy van Winkle with no hesitation. All confidence, bullish, alpha behavior. Dangerous too, Boyd could see it. 

Boyd could also see the man looking down on him, assuming he was a man like Devil, a man who didn’t understand the complexities of drug trade in Harlan County. But Boyd did understand, better than this outsider with his shiny hair. He almost laughed when Quarles proposed a partnership; he really thought Boyd was that nearsighted.

It wasn’t a matter of not seeing the forest through the trees. It was not seeing the predator hiding in them.

“Boyd,” Quarles continued calling him by his first name, ignorant of the disrespect that implied. Or maybe trying to establish a hierarchy. “Have you ever heard the saying, ‘The most successful war seldom pays for its losses?’”

He sensed Tim shift a little behind him, knew it was a silent chuckle. Boyd barely kept a straight face himself. “Thomas Jefferson.”

Quarles hid his indignation well, only letting a playful surprise show on his face as he looked around for an audience reaction. This was a game now. Risk, poker, possibly Jenga. Possibly all three.

“Prison doesn’t offer much, but it does give a man ample time to read,” he smiled, coiled and ready for a strike. Quarles did remind him of a mongoose, now that he thought about it.

“Among other things,” Quarles murmured, his eyes still roaming the bar, his fake-surprise gone. Getting the measure of them now. He turned back to Boyd after studying something just beyond his shoulder. Something over by Tim had gotten his attention? Either way, he was speaking now. “You and I make more money as partners than as enemies.”

It was total bullshit, but Boyd felt like stating that a little more eloquently for his guest. “Mr. Quarles, have you ever heard the term carpetbagger?”

His eyes were already hardening. “I have.”

“To a carpetbagger,” Boyd continued, politely foregoing the definition. “Partnership just means we do all the work while you make all the money.”

“Amen to that,” smile still in place but eyes still icy. Boyd truly couldn’t tell if he was joking, antagonizing, or just that crazy.

“I’m reminded of another saying,” he said instead of trying to puzzle that out. “‘When the rich wage war, it’s the poor who die.’ Any idea who said that?” Quarles frowned, but before he could answer, Boyd turned his head. He directing his voice over his shoulder, even as his eyes stayed on Quarles. “Tim?”

“Jean-Paul Sartre,” he heard the lazy drawl, felt a little pull of smug satisfaction.

Quarles looked past Boyd, towards that drawl. Boyd realized that’s what he’d been studying before- not something by Tim, but Tim himself. It was a strange look on his face, calculating, something else. Maybe he was good at spotting the biggest threats in a room, Boyd surmised.

“Sartre,” he agreed, bringing the man’s attention back to him once more. “Now Mr. Quarles, I may not be a poor man, but my people are. I’m not condemning my home and my people to that.”

Quarles stared him down, eyes flashing now. Angry. He’d expected to get what he came for, apparently. Either Boyd’s compliance or a cowardly rollover. He’d get neither. Quarles realized this and stood, making a show of buttoning his jacket. “Boyd,” he nodded by way of farewell.

Boyd let him take a few steps before throwing one last parting dagger. “One last thing, Mr. Quarles.” He waited for him to stop, turn to Boyd. “Carpetbaggers in three piece suits have been coming to Harlan for a long time. They have a habit of dying off like deer flies at the end of summer.” He stopped, waited.

Quarles smiled. “Saul Bellow”

Boyd made a point of mimicking the surprised face Quarles had made earlier. Quarles kept his smile now, like steel, and left. “You’re a smart man, Mr. Quarles!” he called after him. “A smart man.”

It was quiet for a minute after he left. Jimmy stayed by the door, Arlo stayed at his table, still drinking and muttering to himself. Johnny eased the gun he’d hidden in his shirt out onto his table. “Well, the guy’s an asshole,” he concluded. “Is he still gonna be a threat?”

Boyd didn’t answer right away. He leaned back in his chair instead, a little tired for no reason. He looked over his shoulder at Tim, raised an eyebrow. _Well?_

Tim was also in the process of standing down, frowning a little. He moved to join Boyd, sitting in the seat Quarles had vacated, drinking the rest of the Pappy Quarles hadn’t bothered to finish.

“Well?” Johnny prompted out loud, echoing Boyd’s eyebrow.

“He’s still very much a threat,” Boyd answered. More so now, actually. “Tim?”

Tim set the glass back down. “Cliche taste in literature, good taste in bourbon, shitty with everything else.” Shaking his head, “Got too much belief in himself.”

“Belief?” Jimmy echoed from the door, completely lost.

Tim obviously drew on some patience before answering. “He’s used to getting his way. Enough that he just expects he’s right, powerful, the smartest, the most dangerous.”

“So he’s an arrogant son of a bitch,” Arlo grumbled. “We can put a stop to that.”

Tim shook his head again, looked directly at Boyd. “More than arrogance. Belief.”

Boyd dragged himself forward in the chair again. “Meaning?”

Tim maintained their eye contact, though it seemed to hurt to do so. “Men with that kind of believe in their cause’ll do about anything to ensure it happens. Live in.. dangerous denial. And go a little crazy at the first real indication that it won’t work out.” He shoved himself away, maybe feeling that he’d said too much. “I don’t like him,” he concluded simply, going back to the bar. A clink of glass on glass as he reached for another drink.

If anyone had experience in that, it was probably the kid who’d spent a few years fending off religious extremists armed with bombs. (Not that Kentucky was all that different.)

Boyd nodded, more to himself than the others. Well. Getting the Bennett money was certainly taking a backseat now. Already a challenge to his throne, and he’d only just moved into the castle.

It was going to be a long summer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was it summer during season 3? Who knows. Let's pretend, k?
> 
>  
> 
> (And sorry, I would've posted this earlier tonight, but Breaking Bad kicked my ass. Better late than never!)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tim has to be nice to Raylan. Twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honor and memory of Elmore Leonard, just for this chapter, I tried to follow one of his cardinal writing rules. #3: Never use a verb other than 'said' to carry dialogue. It's a lot harder than it seems! RIP Mr. Leonard. Thanks for giving us this playground to write in.

Tim surprised himself, actually feeling something when he heard the clinic doc had been shot up and killed with one of Audrey’s workers at the clinic. The doc had been a good guy, despite throwing his lot in with Boyd and them. Had patched him and Ava up good after Dickie Bennett. Now he was just another dead body in the dirt.

There had been a medic with his unit one deployment, with the ridiculous name of Clarence. Of course they’d all called him Angel. He’d been baby-faced like the clinic doc, but with a Nebraska accent, looked like a choir boy. Acted like one too- no cursing, no drinking. 

But in The Shit, he was a savior. A god. Fastest draw in the East when it came to getting an IV in, their unit would brag to the others. He kept them all alive a dozen times over.

Until, just like this doc, a hole had been blown clear through his chest. Big enough probably for Tim to stick his fist all the way through and out the other side. He figured this because he’d been the one trying to cover the wound with his hands, putting pressure on things he knew he shouldn’t be feeling outside a human body. He told himself not to look too closely at what was squishing between his fingers.

Angel knew it though, he could tell. He’d touched Tim’s hands, unable to talk now, lungs filled with blood. Tapped his fingers, telling Tim not to waste his time or their morphine. Angel had looked up at him, scared and not scared. Guys were still yelling around them. Smoke from that IED around them.

Tim hadn’t held someone’s hand since Michelle Green’s in tenth grade. But he held Angel’s as he died. As-

“Okay. Let’s get this over with.”

Tim blinked a few times, let out the breath he’d been holding for just a second too long. Right. Right. Audrey’s. No flashback. Audrey’s.

He blinked again, looked over at Ava. “You sure you wanna?” She hated Audrey’s.

“Gotta find Ellen May, don’t we?” Ava squared her shoulders, got out of the truck. “Wait like twenty seconds before following me in, okay?”

Tim nodded back, got out of the truck too. He glanced around at the sad, sorry place. He hadn’t been here since Boyd and Johnny had delivered the little message to Tanner Dodd, and he’d been happy to leave after Johnny swung that bat. He’d never felt comfortable here, truth be told, all those times he came to pick up drunk and beat up Boyd after a shift at the mines. He’d never felt comfortable around the girls here. Sex was sex, sure, but he preferred one night stands to fucking someone who was dead behind the eyes. He was dead enough.

Twenty seconds up, he slipped into the bar, grateful once again that he was an easy person to overlook unless you were looking for him. He was a sniper; he set up his nest in a chair near the door, a clear view of everything in the room. He wished he could camp out at the bar, but just the idea of flashing money in here, for any reason, unsettled him. Inconspicuous, that’s what he liked.

Ava was sitting at a table with a creepy, cro-magnum looking guy. Tim studied him- shifty but hard eyes, bruises and scrapes on his knuckles. Tim didn’t spend too long analyzing that, he didn’t need to. Instead he watched the way the man watched Ava. And didn’t like it.

He was just about to get out of his seat and show how much he didn’t like it when Ava stood up from the table, her fake-sweet smile in place. The one she used to use as a hairdresser, professional but really hating where she was.

Tim waited, watched carefully, hand ready to go for the gun he had hidden at his back. But the man didn’t follow, so Tim waited some more. Gave Ava a good thirty second head start, made sure no one had eyes on him or the door, and snuck back outside.

Ava wasn’t by the truck, but Tim didn’t think she would be. Ellen May hadn’t been inside. The man in charge’s knuckles were bruised. Tim took the turn around the back of the bar towards the trailers.

Ava was there talking to a girl a few years younger than her, maybe a little older than Tim. She’d been inside- his brain triggered the memory, supplied the image. She’d been watching Ava too, with recognition in her eyes.

She flinched now, when Tim approached them, but Ava just smiled reassuringly and held Tim’s arm to stop him from coming closer. “It’s all right, Jen Jen. He’s with me. Say again what you told me.”

She eyed Tim still a little nervously, so he didn’t move, didn’t even blink. Couldn’t really try to look reassuring or non-threatening, he didn’t know how. So he just waited.

Ava must’ve looked trustworthy enough, because the girl finally spoke. “Ellen May got back here this morning all shook up and crying. Delroy took her back there, and we could hear her crying some more. Then he left her in there and told us, don’t none of us go in there looking after her.”

“Delroy,” Tim said. “That the man in charge in there? Busted up knuckles?”

Both women nodded. “Couldn’t even give me a halfway decent excuse for it,” Ava said. She and Tim couldn’t help sharing a look. They could both remember giving a hundred different excuses over the years.

Tim glanced over to the trailers. “Which one’s hers?”

The woman, Jen? Something? shook her head. “Third one down. But you can’t go back there. Delroy sees you, he’ll take it out on her later.”

Tim screwed up one side of his face, thinking. “I could pretend to be...?” he looked at Ava doubtfully.

To his relief, she shook her head. “She won’t talk to you, you know that. You ain’t exactly heartwarming, honey.” She smiled a little, he smiled a little back. “Let’s go back to the truck for a bit. I’ll call Boyd, and... I don’t know. Maybe she’ll come out on her own.” Her tone reflected Tim’s thoughts on the probability of that happening. He headed back to the truck, leaving Ava to say goodbye to her friend (old friend? new? Who could tell, with Ava?)

She joined him a minute later, phone already out and dialing. “Boyd, we got a problem.” She started laying it all out to him, and Tim had to admit he was impressed by her business-like tone. She felt bad for these girls, protective, and instead of getting too emotional, she was getting shit done. 

Had she gotten that from Boyd? From Tim himself? He wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or concerned by that. So he was neither, pushing the thoughts away to listen to her side of the conversation.

She finished detailing their investigation, then paused to listen to his answer. A few seconds in and she suddenly frowned, surprised by something. “O-okay?” Then she hung up.

“What?” Tim said when she didn’t immediately explain.

“Boyd had that tone- I think Raylan just showed up at the bar.”

Tim looked at her, sighed heavily. “Oh.” Another sigh, saying with the exhale, “Great.”

***

Boyd’s call back to her a few minutes later warned them, so Tim didn’t sigh again when Raylan pulled up behind them at Audrey’s. But Ava could tell he wanted to. It made her smile, and her confidence was that much more bolstered when she got out to greet Raylan.

“What’ve you got for me?” he said, wanting to be here even less that Tim, it seemed. Definitely not here on Boyd’s direction, at least.

“Hello to you too.”

He raised both eyebrows. “What’ve you got for me?” he said with even less patience the second time. She should’ve know he’d be like this, pissed about Boyd and about them using Helen’s old place. 

She pointed, keeping the smile to herself when Tim joined them and Raylan gritted his teeth even more. Knowing Tim, he’d chosen just that moment for maximum aggravation. “Third trailer. Ellen May was at the clinic shooting, saw the whole thing. We can’t get to her without Delroy seeing.”

“Delroy’s the CEO of this place?” Raylan asked.

Ava nodded. “Ellen May’s probably beat up some. But I can get her to talk to me. If I can get back there.”

Raylan’s sigh was not unlike Tim’s, she realized. He looked around, took everything in. “This is not something I thought I’d have to use my badge for. Not even sure there’s jurisdiction-”

“Pills were stolen from the clinic,” Tim said with a shrug, appearing bored by the whole thing. “Don’t you recover ill-gotten... whatevers?”

“Ill-gotten gains.” Raylan glared. “And just what’s your jurisdiction in all this?”

Ava hid another smile. Tim just pulled his gun free, unloaded and reloaded the clip, raised an eyebrow at Raylan. Waved the gun a little.

Raylan wasn’t as amused as her, but he acknowledged the benefit of Tim being there with his gun. Ava wondered if and how Raylan knew how good a shot Tim was, decided now wasn’t the time to ask. “Well?”

Raylan pulled Ava towards the trailer. “You and I are gonna talk to her.” Glaring at Tim some more. “You keep lookout and, I don’t know, flank the other side, circle the wagons, whatever shit you Rangers do to provide cover.”

Tim snapped off an incredibly crisp, incredibly real salute. “Sir, yes sir,” but his voice was all dripping with sarcasm. He moved around the other side of the truck and managed to disappear among the trailers.

Raylan continued to lead Ava. “This Delroy fellow will see us. If he comes in and things go sideways, get out or get cover. Take the girl too if you can.”

“How did you know Tim was a Ranger?” she hadn’t realized she’d asked it until it was out of her mouth.

Raylan just knocked on the trailer door, and all thoughts of that disappeared when she saw Ellen May’s face. “God damn it,” she said, angry but not all that surprised.

They got inside to the back of the trailer with her, Ava doing her best to soothe and provide a buffer for Raylan’s questioning. He was smoother than she gave him credit for, though. Good at questioning, at talking to people. That charm of his went a long way, of course.

It had worked on her at one time, hadn’t it?

Of course, there was no time for nostalgia now, not with Delroy walking in on them. Ava would’ve started getting nervous, looking for the quickest exit for her and Ellen May, when Delroy pulled out a knife. She almost laughed. That was it? A knife? (This dismissive tone in her head sounded a lot like Tim, God help her.)

“Shit,” Raylan said. Dramatic. Ridiculous. “I don’t have a knife.” He pulled back his jacket to prove that, showing his marshal star and holstered gun. “I just got this.” He shifted his stance just a little, but it was enough to draw all the power and command in the room. “Go outside and wait your turn.”

Delroy was just plain stupid, shifting the grip on his knife to a ready position. And might’ve done something even more stupid, but a definitive _click_ filled the trailer, and Tim was there behind him, gun pointed at the back of Delroy’s head. “No,” he said, simple and quiet.

“He’s right,” Raylan continued where Tim left off. “That would be very bad for business, Delroy. Tim is going to escort you on out now, and in lieu of payment for this young lady’s time, he will _not_ put a bullet in your brain, sound good?”

Tim frowned. “I didn’t agree to that.” It was his playful grumpy, but only Ava knew that.

And, somehow, Raylan did too. “He doesn’t adhere to our terms, feel free to put that trigger.” His eyes stayed on Delroy the whole time, dead serious.

Delroy swallowed, nodded a fraction of an inch, and let Tim shove him out of the trailer. Ava stayed quiet while Raylan focused back on Ellen May. There was a part of her- and it wasn’t a little part- that wanted Tim to pull the trigger. What gave Delroy the right to live and continue on with his business? How was he any better than Bowman, than Tim’s father, than-

Raylan stood up, bringing her attention back to him and Ellen May. She squeezed the girl’s hand one more time, gave her what she hoped was a comforting smile. “Thanks, honey.”

By the time she got out of the trailer, Raylan had hit Delroy hard with the butt of his gun, knocking him to the ground. Tim stood to the side, unaffected, his own gun loose in one hand. 

“So, what are you gonna do?” Raylan sounded like he was repeating himself.

“Make sure Ellen May don’t get hurt,” Delroy said, cowering, voice thick from the blood running down his nose.

“Good. Now shut up or Tim’s gonna punch you in the face,” Raylan said. He holstered his gun and stalked away, Ava following and Tim bringing up the rear.

“You know what clinic Ellen May was talking about?” she asked once they were by the cars again.

He leaned back against his car, decompressing the anger he’d used on Delroy. “Based on her directions, yeah. I know where it is.”

“Okay then,” Ava flashed him a smile. “Thanks for stopping by.” She brushed past him to the truck, grinning when Tim tipped an imaginary hat to Raylan in farewell. And was surprised (scared) when Raylan stopped him.

“I’m gonna go check out the clinic now before it closes for the day,” he said.

Tim frowned. “Have fun?” unsure of why Raylan was telling him, unsure of how to respond.

Raylan rolled his eyes. “I could use some backup, if you want to come along.”

Ava really frowned at that, coming back to where they stood. Tim seemed surprised too, enough to actually let it show on his face. He gestured to Raylan’s badge. “Don’t you got... people for that?”

Raylan looked more than a little determined, even as he shrugged and answered so casually. “None that can shoot like you. Just an idea. You could use it to gather intel for Boyd if you want. Call it cross-departmental cooperation. Never works between us and the FBI, but...”

“But you and criminals, sure,” Ava shook her head, wondering at Raylan’s gall. She didn’t like that he knew even this much about Tim. She didn’t want some file on him to join the file on Boyd at the Lexington office. She didn’t-

Tim’s turn to shrug, and he tossed his keys to Ava. “Okay.”

“Tim?” Ava barely caught the keys, fumbling with them.

He turned to her fully. Nothing changed on his face, but she could feel him reassuring her. “I want to see who was behind that it,” he told her quietly. Did he feel like he owed the doc for helping the two of them when they got shot? “With any luck, I can shoot the marshal and blame it on whoever we find there.” That wasn’t said quite as privately.

Raylan smirked. “How ’bout that, you already sound like the FBI.”

Tim actually chuckled at that, and there was something secretive and knowing in the laugh that Ava couldn’t figure out, and she was sure Raylan couldn’t either. “Want me to sit in the back so you feel better, don’t ruin your reputation?”

“It ain’t Driving Miss Daisy, asshole,” Raylan said as Tim went to the passenger seat.

Ava almost stepped forward, almost grabbed at Raylan. She wanted to warn him, threaten him. But she couldn’t. It wasn’t like she could tell Raylan to not let him get hurt. Or make sure Tim wore his seatbelt and didn’t spoil his dinner and-

“He have some curfew I should get him home by?” Maybe Raylan deciphered the look on her face, she couldn’t tell.

So she glared instead. “Anything happens to him...”

“Ava,” Tim was the one who interrupted her, smiling a little, shaking his head at her. It was the smile that let her stand down, let him go with Raylan while she headed back to Johnny’s bar. A smile that was equal parts exasperated, reassuring, and fond all at once. Tim knew she cared about him. He’d keep himself safe for her sake, if nothing else.

She hated a little bit that there probably was nothing else.

***

To be honest, Tim was just as surprised as anyone that he agreed to go with Raylan. Some of it was curiosity, some of it wanting justice for Angel ( _Shit, Gutterson, fucking focus. Not Angel. Different medic. Focus_ ), and a little bit because he was so surprised Raylan asked in the first place. He wanted to see how Raylan thought this would play out. 

It was amusing right up until the moment they pulled up to the trailer acting as a clinic. “Shit,” he said, breathing out slowly.

“What?” Raylan stopped his move to get out of the car.

Tim shook his head. “Tanner Dodd.” He should’ve known. He really should’ve known.

Raylan narrowed his eyes. “That the bald asshole or the mustached asshole with a limp?”

“Mustached asshole,” Tim said.

“He gonna recognize you?”

“I was there when he got the limp.”

“Shit,” Raylan agreed. He resized up the situation impressively fast. “Well, I’ll do enough talking to keep his eyes on me. You play backup out of sight, don’t shoot anyone unless it seems appropriate.”

And damn him, he got out of the car before Tim could snap off a witty retort. He grumbled a little at that, staying in the car, listening as Raylan worked his magic once again. He was as fast on his feet with words as he was with a quickdraw, Tim had to admit. And he was loathe to say anything complimentary about this guy, so.

“-Like the traveling circus,” Raylan was saying to Tanner. “Are you the bearded lady?”

At least he was an asshole to everyone equally, that was something.

Tim’s eyes narrowed then. Raylan was talking to Tanner, following him up the steps into the trailer, but Bald Asshole had disappeared. Shit. He scanned the whole area, letting his eyes unfocus just a little to pick up movement faster-

There. The cab of the truck, in front of the trailer. _Attached_ to the trailer. Fucking hell, Tim could see where this was going and hated himself for getting out of the car, drawing his gun. Damn if he wasn’t gonna have to save Raylan Givens.

A shot rang out in the trailer, and like a horse race, the truck engine suddenly turned over and took off. Tim sighed at the inconvenient moving target, glass between them at an angle, sunlight glinting off it at a different angle.

Whatever. He adjusted, squeezed the trigger. A second later the truck shifted, gas pedal no longer being pressed, steering wheel no longer being controlled. It veered off to the side, already slowing down a bit, when the trailer door burst open and Tanner got thrown out. Tim sighed again, annoyed, and ran to catch up with the pill parade.

Tanner struggled to his feet, still some yards away from Tim, when he noticed him. And definitely recognized him, drawing his own gun to fire at Tim.

Tim was already dropping to the ground, bullet going well over his head. He came up on one knee, gun braced in hand, ready to return fire. Tanner was heading to the woods for cover. The trailer was at a stop now, but goddamn Raylan Givens hadn’t emerged from it. And there had been shots fired inside...

“Motherfucker,” Tim said as Tanner got farther and farther from the range of his gun. He wished he had his rifle. One shot to a kneecap, a glancing blow- he could even probably keep the leg with that. But no. Tim was stuck with a lousy .45 and the guy he was supposed to be backup for- federal law enforcement- was possibly dead, surrounded by stolen Vicodin and oxy.

Tim Gutterson, this is your life.

He kept cursing under his breath as he turned away from Tanner and jogged to the trailer. He reached the door just as Raylan clambered out of it, hat in hand.

Tim glared at him, now kinda pissed that he was alive. He’d lost a kill to make sure this asshole was okay, he could as least be bleeding or something. ( _Not a kill here, Gutterson. No one counts your kills here._ )

Raylan was at least out of breath, a little disoriented. “Tanner?”

Tim hooked a thumb over his shoulder, getting his anger back under control. “Got away.”

Raylan nodded, not too pissed at that. “Bald Asshole?”

Tim’s thumb changed direction to the truck. “I appropriately shot him in the head.” Raylan’s eyebrows raised at that, breaths stuttering. Tim couldn’t tell if he was nervous or impressed, didn’t much care. “Get what you came for?”

Raylan nodded, placing his hat back on his head. “More or less.”

Tim didn’t care about the purposefully vague answer either. “Can I go, then? I’m hungry. Missed lunch already today.”

Raylan waved him away. “Go. I gotta call this in, it’d be better if you’re not here when the marshals show up. Again.”

“No more cross-departmental cooperation?” Tim widened his eyes, overly shocked. Feelings hurt.

And there, good, Raylan’s glare was back. “Take one of their cars. I’m assuming you were a proper enough teen delinquent to learn how to hotwire. Shit, no, don’t take Tanner’s. We gotta put a BOLO on him, you don’t want to be driving his car around.” 

“Thanks for looking out for me,” he said, giving it too much drawl, another tip of an imaginary hat.

He’d gotten a few steps when Raylan called out again. “Tim.”

He turned, annoyed and worried again. Not prepared if Raylan tried to thank him for-

Raylan hooked his own thumb towards the body in the truck. “Nice shot.”

Relieved, he smirked back. “It’s what I do.”

***

Raylan hated how off-kilter he was. Robert Quarles had just waltzed right into _his_ bar, _his_ means of shelter. Followed him over to _his _pool table.__

__And then he was just pissed._ _

__“Wait. Are you accusing me of being in Boyd’s pocket?” He smiled because he wasn’t sure what else he could handle contorting his face into. Seriously? “You think I’m working for Boyd.”_ _

__“And he can’t be paying you near enough what you should be getting,” Quarles said smoothly, oblivious to Raylan’s choice of words and the tone he was using to say them. “He’s small-time, Deputy. If that.” He spread his his hands amiably. “I can do a hell of a lot better for you.”_ _

__Raylan laughed, racked the table. Told himself it wouldn’t be good for the bar’s business if he rammed the pool cue down the man’s throat. “That what they teach you up there in business school?”_ _

__“Huh,” Quarles rocked back on his heels._ _

__Raylan wanted to roll his eyes. He wasn’t _so_ shitty at his job that he wouldn’t research the man. Sure, research meant he’d begged and bribed Rachel into asking her FBI friend, but still. Raylan got the info he needed on Robert Quarles. He rattled it all off now, enjoying the moment of power it gave him, ending with a flourish, “-that why you’re going out and chewing up male hustlers?”_ _

__No ‘huh’ this time, but a deep, dark flash in his eyes. Recognition, anger, something more. Raylan was glad, childishly glad, he could piss Quarles off as much as he’d pissed Raylan off._ _

__What the hell had Boyd done to get on this guy’s radar so bad?_ _

__Quarles adjusted his suit jacket for no reason, smoothing it down. He nodded so cordially. “You change your mind about working for Boyd Crowder, let me know. I’ll be in touch. After all, I know where you live.” He smiled so oily, a used-car salesman. Raylan glared in send-off, almost started to relax... and then Quarles turned back to him. “Speaking of enterprising young men, where does Tim fit into all of this?”_ _

__Raylan didn’t freeze, told himself not to react, but something hard settled in his gut. “Excuse me?”_ _

__Quarles wasn’t fooled. “The, uh, bright young man who works for Boyd. Who, I heard through an associate, also accompanied _you_ on a raid of an oxy clinic.” He cocked his head to an angle. “Plays for both teams, does he?”_ _

__Tanner Dodd. So this was who had pulled his strings. Not just Duffy and Dixie Mafia, Detroit working _with_ them. Shit. “Not sure what you’re talking about,” he said with a shrug, refusing to be baited. He turned his back on Quarles, leaning over the pool table._ _

__“Sure,” Quarles stretched the word out, too much Detriot and menace in it to call it a drawl. “Shame you don’t know him better. Seems like a... _useful_... kid to have around.”_ _

__No mistaking the threat there, and Raylan clenched his jaw to keep from reacting. That would only make things worse, if Quarles thought he had more leverage to use against him._ _

__God _damn_ Boyd Crowder for getting him roped up in this, pointing Quarles in his direction, making him a dirty cop. He waited until Quarles was gone before taking his anger out on the striped 4 ball. Looked like a trip to Harlan was in order._ _

__***_ _

__Tim honestly wasn’t surprised when Raylan showed up at Johnny’s bar again. He was about to suggest Raylan just set up a satellite office in Harlan to save himself the drive every other day, but Raylan spoke up first._ _

__“What do you know about Robert Quarles?” He settled himself on a stool across the bar from Tim._ _

__Tim blinked. He possibly should’ve seen this coming too. He poured himself another drink, then one for Raylan. “Probably less than you do. You must be desperate.”_ _

__“He came to see me last night,” Raylan said, something dark in the words. Tim didn’t ask for clarification. “And I need to figure out how to bury the big-toothed, albino-looking son of a bitch.”_ _

__He’d never seen Raylan so worked up before, and he had to admit it was more than a little amusing. “Why don’t you just shoot him in the face?”_ _

__Not quite as amused, “Does it look like I’m being funny?”_ _

__Tim was nothing if not honest. “Little bit.”_ _

__“You having fun?”_ _

__“It’s a slow morning,” Tim said with a shrug, still laughing inside. But he did pour Raylan another drink._ _

__Raylan accepted it, calming some. “The man’s a psycho,” he said, looking straight at him. There was a weird little undercurrent of urgency in his tone, like he needed to tell Tim that. Needed to warn him._ _

__Not sure why, Tim waved it off. “Plenty of men are. He’s not even that high up in the Detroit line.”_ _

__Raylan frowned. “How do you know that?”_ _

__He shrugged again. His phone call to Sarah (and painfully awkward and short call with Jeremy) had produced more than just info on Wynn Duffy. He’d gotten the lowdown on every tie to Detroit. “He’s mostly answering to Sammy Tonin right now.”_ _

__“Sammy Tonin,” Raylan said. “Son of Theo?”_ _

__“Son of Theo.” Then, out of the goodness of his black little heart, he decided to throw Raylan a bone. “And in Kentucky right now.”_ _

__Raylan’s eyebrows shot up. “Kentucky?”_ _

__“Likes horses,” Tim sat on the barstool next to Raylan, picking up his drink again. “That track in Lexington is having some sort of show this weekend.”_ _

__Raylan took this in. “...Thanks?” he said, surprised Tim was helping him at all._ _

__Tim just waved it away again, hiding his smirk. He was fairly confident FBI surveillance would pick Raylan up before he got anywhere close to Tonin. And there’d be no way to trace his info to Sarah, so she couldn’t get burned for this. Win-win._ _

__“You’re not gonna tell me how you know this shit, are you?” Raylan asked._ _

__Tim gave him a look. “Would _you_ tell you?”_ _

__Raylan tipped his glass. “Fair enough.”_ _

__They finished their drinks in silence, broken only when Boyd walked in, rolling a keg. “Well, that is downright unsettling. Something about the lion and lamb...” he said, eyeing Raylan and Tim drinking together without anyone getting shot. “You here to check on your daddy, Raylan? Took quite a knock to the head up at Noble’s Holler.”_ _

__Raylan continued to drink, unconcerned. “What was he doing in the Holler?”_ _

__Boyd was really suspicious now. “Calling out for your dead mama.” No reaction from Raylan. “Ava’s tending to him up at the house-” which Tim hated, and let his distaste be known now with an eyeroll, which Raylan caught and smirked at. “-So I’ll be sure to send your regards if you’d like.”_ _

__“What I’d like,” Raylan set down his empty glass, stood slowly and purposefully. “Is to have a minute of your time.”_ _

__Tim wasn’t quite sure how it went from that to Raylan slamming his fist into Boyd’s gut, but it happened all the same. Raylan started pulling him towards the back office, and Tim stood to follow, completely unsure of what to do. “What the-”_ _

__“Stay out of it!” Raylan and Boyd said at the same time._ _

__Tim stopped where he was, hands up defensively. Okay then. If this was the Harlan equivalent of their weird pseudo lovers quarrel, he’d happily stay out of it. As long as no bullets started flying. Not sure which of them he was really following the orders of, Tim went back to the bar to do what he did best. Poured himself another drink._ _

__***_ _

__Boyd was smart. Calculating. He’d never given Tim a reason to doubt him. Tim had to remind himself of this several times in the last hour, as they drove from the bar up to Noble’s Holler. As Boyd went into that little… was it a real diner, even? whatever the hell Limehouse served food in? As he left Tim outside to ‘keep watch’ or some shit._ _

__Tim wasn’t comfortable right here… and in some ways was the most at ease that he’d been in years. Every single person that walked past him while he leaned back against the truck was eyeing him with suspicion, with hostility. In that sense, it was the most in his element Tim had been since his discharge. He was really good at being in spaces where he was the outnumbered enemy. Where he was hated._ _

__Hell, he’d been good at _that_ part since he was nine._ _

__“You look like you’re waiting to get jumped, sonny.”_ _

__Tim turned to the voice, one side of his mouth coming up in wry agreement. An older woman, 60s maybe, stood there studying him with a bushel of apples in her arms. Kentucky was a surreal fucking place. He nodded, remembering his manners. “Yes ma’am. But to be fair, I’m like that anywhere in this county.”_ _

__Her answering smile was eerily similar to his own. “True enough.” She reached into the bushel and tossed him one of the apples. His reflexes had him catching it before he knew what he was doing, and he raised an eyebrow at her, curious. Maybe a little suspicious._ _

__She grinned wide then, two teeth missing on one side. “Ellstin Limehouse and Boyd Crowder ain’t got much in common, but too much words is one of ’em. You could be here awhile.” She shooed at him with one hand. “Eat.”_ _

__He eyed the apple. “Not an evil stepmother, are you?”_ _

__The fact that her laugh sounded somewhat like a witch’s cackle didn’t really appease him, but he gave a mental shrug and ate the apple. She watched approvingly for a moment before giving a kick to one of his feet. “Nice boots.”_ _

__He glanced down at them, maybe a little suspicious again. They were his combat boots; he’d brought two pairs back with him and they were pretty much the only shoes he owned. They were dirty and beat-up and worn, and not exactly pretty. “Thank you.”_ _

__“My nephew was in Desert Storm,” she said, her voice knowing. He just nodded to that, unsure of what else to say. Or wanted to say. “Came back all messed in the head. Wandered into the river a year later and never came back out.”_ _

__He nodded again. What the hell else was he supposed to do, compare the weird and varied ways he’d heard other vets bite it?_ _

__She didn’t seem to care. “My boy, he almost joined up too, for this go ’round. I reckon he’s ’bout the same age as you.” She pointed towards where Boyd and Limehouse were still talking. One of the men standing behind Limehouse did look about Tim’s age. “I talked him into staying here, joining this here army.” She shook her head, cackled again. “Just as much danger a’getting shot, but easier for his people to take care of him.” Arched an eyebrow at him. “You agree?”_ _

__He raised an eyebrow right back. “Can’t argue with the logic.”_ _

__She handed him another apple, a reward for good behavior. “Can’t see Mr. Crowder and his lot doing the same for you,” she said. It was more comment than a challenge, but Tim felt defensive just the same._ _

__“Maybe he and Mr. Limehouse have more in common than you thought,” he said instead._ _

__The woman looked at him sharply then, really sizing him up. He held still, didn’t change his expression, didn’t say more. After maybe a full minute of silence, she nodded to herself. “You’re an odd one, sonny. I like you.” She tossed him another apple- he wasn’t even halfway done the one he had- and walked away._ _

__Tim stood there dumbly for a second, what the hell was he supposed to do with another apple- when he realized he had a new audience. Boyd was grinning widely, delighted. “Timothy, I’ll never understand how you are so popular with strange folk.”_ _

__He narrowed his eyes, defensive yet again. “Yourself inclu-”_ _

__“Myself included.” Boyd gave a little mocking bow, caught the apple that Tim halfheartedly threw at him._ _

__He rolled his eyes, turning to get back in the truck as Boyd did the same. He glanced back at the diner, noticed Limehouse watching them through the window. Limehouse gave his weird, crooked smile, waving the spatula in his hand in farewell. Unsure of how to respond, he gave a quick nod, climbed in. “Well?”_ _

__Boyd was silent on the drive out of the holler, all the way until they crossed the bridge. As though someone could still hear them if they were on Limehouse’s land. “This may end up being a little trickier than I previously thought.”_ _

__“Meaning you have no more of a clue now than you did before you talked to him,” Tim said._ _

__“Meaning I have more suspicions, but not clear cut evidence.” Boyd shook his head, growing serious. “Mr. Quarles may have already gotten to Noble’s Holler. Which means you may be right, he may be the one directing Sheriff Napier my way. If that’s the case, we’ve lost a dangerous amount of ground in our own backyard.”_ _

__Tim opened his mouth, shut it, almost opened it again._ _

__Boyd noticed, of course. “What’s wrong?”_ _

__Tim shrugged one shoulder, “Something Raylan said.” At Boyd’s look to him, he sighed. “When he was telling me about Quarles. He was… I don’t know. Less annoying than usual. More worried.”_ _

__“Worried?” Boyd was actually interested, even though he hid it well._ _

__“I…” Tim stopped, tried to come up with the best words for Boyd to understand. “‘Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful.’”_ _

__Boyd was quiet for nearly the rest of the drive. They pulled up to Ava’s house, neither of them getting out of the truck. “This man is coming after Kentucky from both sides. Me, Raylan…” He turned to Tim. “You that worried about him too?”_ _

__He couldn’t answer for a moment. “I don’t know yet. Rather be worried than shot in the back of the head, though.”_ _

__Boyd seemed to agree with that. He opened his door slowly, still not getting out. The evening air brought the smell of cut grass and burning wood into the truck, relaxing Tim a bit. “We’re just going to have to be extra cautious from here on out,” Boyd said. “And maybe, like we had to with Devil, we’ll have to get rid of Mr. Quarles’s middle man.”_ _

__Napier. “Shit, Boyd. Are you gonna make me kill another Harlan sheriff?” Tim meant it as a joke, mostly, but still appreciated the way Boyd immediately turned to him. Trying to keep his promise, not let Tim be just a weapon for his war. And Tim would continue to appreciate it for however long it lasted._ _

__“No.” He gestured for Tim to follow him out of the truck, up to the house. “I think a use of force would just prove our Detroit friend’s theory on us backwards hicks. A little bit of political espionage might be beneficial this time.” He started to grin, wheels turning in his head, plans forming._ _

__Tim breathed deep, let him be. There was no stopping Boyd when he got in this mood. This was what Boyd was made for. Instead, Tim walked past him into the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves, ready to help Ava with whatever needed helping for dinner. Shook his head at her when she tried to look for Boyd, joked about his time with Limehouse instead. Ava didn’t need to know what Tim was already sure of-_ _

__This was going to get a hell of a lot worse before it got better._ _


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim gets that hug. Whether he wants it or not.

_"How about the part where I shot him in the chest?"_

Raylan was about to shoot someone now. He sat there while Vasquez and the pinhead bantered back and forth. Never mind it was his future on the line. He took a deep breath. "Are we done here?" Raylan asked the room, finding it harder and harder to remain calm.

Quarles was one thing, but an FBI agent and an AUSA accusing him of being dirty was horse shit.

"Not quite," Vasquez pulled a blown up photograph out of his pile of folders and slid it across the table to him and Art. Raylan could feel Art frowning at it, but he didn't care enough to do anything about it. The photo was of him in the parking lot of the gun range talking to Tim, both of them leaning against their cars. Security camera footage.

"How the hell did you think to get this?" he asked Vasquez, ignoring Barkley completely. Because he knew neither of them would know about the range. Someone- whoever set Barkley on his trail- had tipped this too. Jesus Christ. There was probably an FBI leak with the Detroit mob.

Vasquez shrugged. He was an alright guy when he wasn't trying to do his job. "You don't think it's strange that you have these regular meetups with a member of Boyd Crowder's crew and yet you-"

"He ain't a member of Boyd's crew," Raylan cut him off.

Even Art gave him a look for that one. "Really?" At least Vasquez tried not to sound horribly skeptical.

Raylan held his ground. "Have you checked the records on that kid?" He waited through two seconds of silence. "I have. He's a combat vet with no priors. Never been detained or even spotted at any of Boyd's crime scenes. If you want to come at me, try something better. There's no evidence tying him to Boyd."

"They live in the same house," Barkley snapped.

Raylan raised an eyebrow. "So I should be investigating your wife for your misdeeds?" And how the hell did he know where Boyd _or_ Tim lived?

Barkley sputtered for a moment, then moved on. "We have security footage of you two at this range three, four, five times in the last three months." Raylan felt Art shift in his seat next to him and inwardly grimaced; he'd have some explaining to do later, for sure. "Do you want to explain to us how and why that is, or should we take more of this 'plead the fifth' crap as you hiding the truth?"

He swallowed back his anger again. "I don't have to explain shit unless you're charging me with something. I haven't pleaded anything because I'm not guilty of anything," he rattled off in one breath. He stood, so completely over this shit. "Can I go?"

"Hey-" Barkley stood too, ready to do... probably nothing, he couldn't have anything real on Raylan. They all knew it. This was such bullshit, he-

"Raylan." Art was there, blocking his escape. "Wait in my office." Raylan opened his mouth to argue, but Art got that look on his face. "My office."

Raylan sent one last glare to Vasquez and Barkley, changed direction and nearly threw himself down onto the sofa there, angry and antsy. Sullen.

"Aw, stop pouting. You look like one of my daughters," Art came in a few minutes later, running a hand across his jaw. Sure-fire sign that he was annoyed.

"Art, this is-"

Art held up a hand. "Don't tell me this is all bullshit, Raylan. You may know that, I may... mostly know that, but hopefully you're smart enough to know how bad this looks. Most judges'd see it the same way they do." He settled at his desk with a sigh, tired, confused. "You really been meeting up with that Gutterson fellow at a gun range out of town?"

"I like the range. I don't go because he's there," he said by way of explanation. "He just happens to be there a lot."

"He happens to be everywhere a lot." Art started counting off his fingers. "Picked up Ava at that Bulletville cabin, Ava and Boyd from here after that mine robbery. Shot Doyle Bennett. And something tells me he might've been at that oxy clinic disaster, considering the bullshit story you tried to tell."

"Art, he's just a-"

"What do you really know about him?" Art interrupted. "Yeah, you skimmed his public record. Did you bother digging any further?"

"Didn't need to," he said stubbornly. He didn't; Raylan trusted his gut more than government records.

"Yeah, you do." Art was quiet now, calm. Concerned. "He's dangerous, Raylan. Don't trust him."

"Art-"

"Boyd and Ava are bad enough. But you can't be buddies with their guard dog," he borrowed the term they'd heard Dickie Bennett use months before.

"We're not buddies," Raylan insisted. And that was totally true. He didn't do 'buddies' with people. Thankfully, neither did Tim.

Art just sighed again. "Rachel and I did some digging after the Bennett shooting. Gutterson has a number of sealed files attached to his name."

Raylan shrugged. "He was a sniper with the Rangers, Art. I'd imagine that came with classified shit-"

"One of the sealed records was from when he was a minor," Art wasn't deterred. "Juvenile records are always sealed, but-"

"But nothing. He could've been a witness to something, or the victim. You don't know." He leaned forward. "Feels like you’re my dad telling me who I can't be friends with. Art. We like the same gun range. That's it."

Art leaned forward too. "And whoever's gunning for you knows about the range. Be careful. Try to keep your nose clean, and maybe out of Harlan, for the next few days. This plus the Gary Hawkins murder... Who the hell did you piss off this time?"

Raylan didn't answer. He knew who he'd pissed off. He just didn't know how much more to expect. And he really needed to find the goddamn murder weapon before it ended up in his car or worse. He looked over his shoulder into the office, wounding if there was any marshal left that would help him escape.

Probably not.

***

Ava turned the TV off with an almost audible click, Boyd and Napier disappearing from the screen. "Son of a bitch," she snapped at it. Tim looked over at her, slid his drink down within her reach. She picked it up and took a gulp, immediately coughing, hand to her chest. "Jesus, Tim, it's barely lunchtime." She didn't glare, just looked sad.

He refused to acknowledge the weird feeling in his stomach at making her sad. He shrugged instead. "What did you think I was drinking?"

She took a breath, took another sip, and slid the glass back to him. "This whole goddamn place is an enabler," she said, lamenting.

He shook his head, pointed at the dark TV, getting the discussion off of him. "You can't have thought this would all go smoothly."

"Kinda, yeah," she admitted. "Something has to at some point, don't it?"

Tim snorted, couldn't bring himself to lie to her. "I'll get the tables set up for opening," he said instead, making himself useful.

She let him be for a few minutes. "You want to tell me what's bugging you?" she finally threw out, refraining from adding, _why you're drinking at lunchtime?_

He set a few more chairs down, taking his time. "You and Boyd getting Raylan involved in this might not be so good an idea."

She grimaced and laughed at the same time. "I know you don't like the man, but-"

"It's not that." He tilted his head. "Not _just_ that. He's pissing off people a bit more powerful than me lately. You and Boyd are gonna get dragged along with it."

Sarah had called him this morning. An agent in her office had just been suspended. Someone had tipped Raylan off about Sammy Tonin, and the bosses there had assumed it was the agent who was friends with a Lexington marshal, something-Brooks. Sarah's job was safe for now, but shit was going down and Raylan Givens was at the center of it.

Tim wanted Ava away from the center.

She smiled. "Boyd's careful. He knows what he's doing."

The first was true. Tim wasn't so sure of the second. "Someone willing to bomb a sheriff's car to frame another might be more unpredictable than Boyd's used to," he settled on saying. Finished setting up the tables and chairs, he returned to his drink at the bar.

Ava was quiet, watching him finish the glass. When he tilted it towards her, showing her how empty it was, she took it and placed it in the sink. "One drink before five, you know the rule," she warned without even having to see his glare.

Why did she keep making up those rules?

"I'm gonna pretend that's the only thing bothering you," she continued. "But don't think I'm not worried about you dealing with... with car bombs and stuff. Or dealing with whatever they, um, remind you of."

Ava was trying. Ava cared about him. That was what kept him in his seat, kept him from snapping at her. She meant well. She couldn't know what car bombs 'reminded' him of, what they stirred up. What they made him hear and smell and think and feel. She didn't know. She meant well. She cared-

"Tim?"

He was spared answering by a pounding on the front door, loud and almost panicked. That's how it sounded to him, at least. By the time he got up, reaching for his gun, Ava was already there carelessly pulling the door open. "Damn it, Ava, what if-"

"Ava, please, please, you gotta help me!" The voice was as panicked as the knock, stuttering and crying for good measure. "Please..."

Ava sighed, stepped back, and Tim raised an eyebrow as Ellen May near fell into the bar, fluttering around like a trapped bird, crying and gasping. Ava locked the door behind them, trying to calm her down. "What are you-"

"Please, he's- he's gonna kill me!" the girl was still hyperventilating.

He and Ava exchanged a look. "Maybe it'd be better if you..."

He was already searching for his keys. "I got an errand to run anyway. Call me if you need..." he wasn't sure. Him? His gun? Whatever. Ava could figure it out and get Ellen May back to her trailer without him. "Johnny'll be here soon to open up."

She nodded, arm going around Ellen May. "I'll call you." She turned towards the back office. "C'mon honey, tell me what's going on."

Tim was never more grateful to leave a bar in his life.

He drove aimlessly for a bit before taking the turn to the sheriff's station. Maybe to see Boyd, or to- "Well, shit."

Too late. Raylan spotted him a second or two later, saying something to the burly guy next to him, then ambling over to Tim's truck. "What are you doing here?"

"Seen the error of my ways thanks to our friendship," Tim deadpanned. "I'm applying for sheriff. Think I got a shot?"

"Interesting choice of words, considering what happened to the last one," Raylan looked to the glove compartment, where they both knew a Glock was stashed. "You and Boyd were right, by the way. Napier is definitely in cahoots with Tanner Dodd and Quarles."

"Don't say 'cahoots', Raylan," he replied absentmindedly, scanning the area. "You used a fake LEO to get that out of him?" He nodded at the burly guy.

"Set up a trap," Raylan corrected. "And how'd you know he's fake?"

He gave Raylan a definitive 'I'm not stupid' look. "You're not wearing a vest, the one he's wearing is too small for him, he's missing at least three teeth that I can tell. You didn't let him talk in there, did you?"

Raylan gave him a very similar look. "Course not." he glanced around them, then leaned in a little. "Can you keep an eye on Napier till he meets up with Tanner again?"

Tim really wanted to say no, just because. But he nodded. "Got nothing better to do, I guess."

Raylan nodded too. He started to turn away, hesitated, and turned back. "Be careful bandying that word about."

"Which word, marshal?" Was it possible to be intrigued and bored at the same time?

"You and I ain't friends, and it'll be safer for both of us if it stays that way," Raylan said in a rush. "Someone got all up in my shit. Harlan. Boyd. Knows about the gun range, too."

FBI, probably, but Tim wasn't about to reveal he knew that. But then, someone had to have tipped them off, right? "Quarles?"

Raylan nodded, grim and angry. "He knows your name. He's- he's not someone you want interested in you, understand?"

There it was again, that weird worry like he'd had last time they talked about Quarles. "Okay," he said simply, not sure what else he was supposed to do.

Raylan pushed his hat back a bit farther from his eyes. "Don't show your face too much around these people."

"Kentucky people?" he asked, knowing his smirk would bring Raylan out of his weird mood.

Lo and behold, it did. "Law enforcement people," he glared. "Fair warning, my boss knows your name too. And knows you're ex-military, so once they figure out it wasn't Boyd who made that car bomb..." he trailed off pointedly.

Tim couldn't help it- his mask slid back into place, eyes hard. Giving nothing away. He could see it in his mind, the gas tank denting and giving way from his bullet, hand grenade thrown, igniting fumes, waiting for the explosion. Danvers getting too close, not able to take cover...

He glared at Raylan. "I didn't make bombs. I got rid of them."

He tried to keep an even tone, but it must not have worked. Raylan's eyes sharpened on him, studying. The staring contest held until Tim broke the silence. Without looking away, he pointed behind Raylan. "You better hurry before your fake friend wanders off with your vest."

He wasn't about to let Raylan see more of him than he already had.

Goddamn. Maybe he _should_ stay away from Kentucky people.

***

Ava was exhausted by the time she got back to the bar, relieved that Ellen May was back at her trailer, relieved Johnny’s truck wasn’t in the lot. It was gonna be a bitch cleaning up all that blood by herself, but at least she’d have some peace and quiet.

She slipped into the bar quickly, locking the door behind her. And nearly screamed when she turned around to find someone standing in the middle of the room, silent and still. “Jesus!” She put a hand to her chest, trying to calm her heartbeat.

Tim was looking down at the bloodstain, not at her. She wondered how long he’d been there. He didn’t move.

“It’s okay,” she said finally, coming closer. “Tim. It’s okay.”

“Yeah?” he grunted. Pointing to the stain, “That’s a dead body’s worth of blood. Whose?”

“Delroy,” she was next to him now. “He got two of the girls from Audrey’s shot, was gonna kill Ellen May.”

“He attacked you two?” Tim looked up at her now, eyes flashing with anger- at Delroy, at himself for not being there.

She shook her head, wanting to relieve him of that. “I called him here to make a trade. Got a couple grand of him, then I…” she shrugged. “Took care of it. He-”

“Jesus _Christ_ , Ava,” Tim turned away, went to the bar. Leaned against it with his head in his hands. She didn’t dare move to follow, not yet. “Where’s the body?” his voice was muffled, muted.

“We dumped it down a mine shaft. It’s fine,” she insisted. “Ellen May ain’t gonna talk. Johnny kept the bar closed, so no one’d see anything. It’s fine.”

Tim turned, and his glare was so unfamiliar to Ava. It took her a bit to place it- the same one he’d had when he picked her up from that cabin. It was scary to see it again. “It’s. Not. Fine.”

She frowned, unsettled by his tone too. “I know he was under our protection and that might be bad for Boyd’s reputation. Johnny already read me that riot act. But he was killing those girls and I-”

“You think that’s what I care- what I’m pissed about?” he snapped. “Ava. You killed a man. You’re getting yourself involved in other people’s messes.” He shook his head. “I know you feel bad for Ellen May, but you can’t just… just pick up strays because they make you sad.”

She hid her shock at all his words pretty well, she thought. “Why not? It worked on you.”

Tim blinked, tirade momentarily forgotten. He shook his head, letting the anger slip away. Just something like weariness left. “Not the same,” he muttered.

She got close again, put a hand on his arm. “I did what I had to do,” she spoke softly, calmly. “Like with Bowman.”

“No,” he held her arm right back. “Not like Bowman. You called Delroy here for a trade. This was premeditated. You got rid of evidence.” He moved away again. This time he went behind the bar, grabbed a bottle.

“Tim,” she said it instinctively, admonishing.

He didn’t glare at her. It looked like he didn’t have the energy. “We’re gonna have to bleach more than a few pints of blood out of a barroom floor. Quickly, too, because we’re supposed to go to the fucking VFW for a sheriff debate.” He grimaced, looked down at the bottle. “Don’t stop me from having a goddamn drink right now, Ava.”

He hated the VFW, always had. So Ava kept quiet as he took a long swig from whatever liquor it was- Tim probably hadn’t cared to check. And she kept quiet as he went around back and got the bleach, some buckets and mops, coming back around for another drink before he started cleaning.

She didn’t know how to tell Tim that she just wanted to protect Ellen May and those girls like he had once protected her. She wanted them taken care of like she kept trying to take care of him. Those girls deserved some sort of kindness like she and Tim gave each other, didn’t they?

Ava didn’t know how to do that yet, let alone explain it to Tim. So instead she let him have another drink and started washing away the blood.

***

Boyd was being pulled in a few directions right now. Relief at being out of the jail cell, anger at Quarles for essentially putting him there, elation after the debate went so well in Shelby’s favor, and a slightly… worried curiosity over whatever the hell was going on between Ava and Tim. Both of them were too quiet. (Well, Ava was too quiet. Tim was Tim in that regard.)

So when Ava requested to speak with him in private, and Tim tagged along anyway, he didn’t question it. Left his revelers in Shelby’s reluctant care, and followed his two… well, really, was there a name, a title, for them?

That question preoccupied his thoughts right up until the moment Ava’s story registered with him. She shot and killed Delroy. On purpose.

No wonder Tim looked so worried by way of pissed off.

“Ava,” he said quietly, as gently as he could manage.

“I know,” she said, far more calm and sure then he thought she could be. “But we dumped his body down one of those old mine shafts. Tim and I bleached out the stains here. Nobody saw or heard nothing.”

He swallowed around a strangely dry mouth. “Well, I do appreciate your thoroughness, but Delroy was under our protection-”

“I know,” she looked him square in the eye. “But he was using the girls to rob a bank yesterday, and two of ’em are dead now. That somebody we want as part of our reputation?”

He saw Tim grimace behind her, could practically see the worry for Ava’s explanation- Ava’s judgment behind his eyes. “Know who else used to kill people and dump their bodies down mine shafts?” he finally spoke up. “Mags Bennett. That what you want here?”

Painfully true. But they all lived by some code, didn’t they? This was Ava’s. He looked back to her, pulled her close. “I respect your decision, Ava, I do. I know you care about the less fortunate. Look where it got us with Timothy-”

“Motherfucking…” Tim got up, rolling his eyes. He moved to the door, mumbling under his breath.

Boyd and Ava exchanged a small smile at that, and he could feel her shoulders relax some. “I’ve been thinking,” she said then, slowly, carefully. “About Audrey’s. Those girls need someone to look after them, take care of things right.”

He frowned. “I already promised you I wouldn’t.”

“And you’re not gonna,” she fired right back, running her hands lightly up and down his arms. “I was thinking of someone else.”

“Who?” Johnny, maybe? Weren’t that many others…

“Well,” she glanced away, then back to him. “Me.”

Boyd could feel more surprise in the room than just his own, and realized Tim was still there by the door. “You?” was all he could get out, eyes wide.

She nodded, seeming more sure of herself with each second. “Someone has to, and I don’t trust no one else. I can look after the girls better than some strange man. And- and it’ll be good for the business. Delroy was under our protection, but he acted out against us. We dealt with it.” Ava shrugged, trying to be… like him, Boyd realized. Calculated. Okay with-

Tim made another noise behind him, and Boyd turned in time to see the back of his head as it left the office. Not back out to the bar, but towards the parking lot instead.

Ava was biting at her lip when he turned back around. “He’s been pissed off all evening,” she told him.

“I think it’s more than that,” he said, bringing her close. “I must admit, I may share in his worry about your, well, lack of hesitancy? But,” he held up a hand, staving off her argument, speaking quickly, “I know why you did what you did. And I trust you.”

She leaned in, kissed him softly. “I know what I’m doing,” she promised.

Boyd just kissed her again. _I hope so_ , he couldn’t say. _Because I’m not so sure._

***

It was three in the morning. Ava knew because she’d been counting the minutes for over an hour. Her bed and pillow might as well have been made of coal lumps; she couldn’t get comfortable.

The window was open, a breeze blowing in, but it didn’t help. She was hot and cold all at the same time, her hands sweating and shaking.

Every creak of the bed sounded like a gunshot.

She sat up with a huff, slipping out of the sheets without waking Boyd. She went to the bathroom, splashed water on her face. Got out her nice soap, the expensive one, and washed her hands once, twice, almost angry when they still felt gritty. Dirty.

She needed some fresh air, that was all. Some air to clear her head. Ava snuck down the stairs, pausing out of instinct to glance at the couch before remembering that Tim slept upstairs now. (He hadn’t said a word since leaving the bar earlier.)

And, funny enough, she wasn’t surprised that he was out on the front porch, sitting at his spot on the railing, eyes closed. There was an empty bottle on the floor next to him, and Ava decided she didn’t want to know how much had been in it before tonight. “Hey,” she called out softly.

“Hey.” He didn’t open his eyes, but he didn’t tense up or move away either.

Taking that as a sign of encouragement, not a sign that he was drunk, she sat in the rocking chair across from him. “I can’t sleep,” she came right out and said it. He didn’t respond. “I can’t settle. My hands feel- and I can’t stop thinking about it.” Still nothing. She was shaking again. “I don’t understand. I didn’t feel like this with Bowman.”

“Bowman wasn’t murder, Ava,” Tim was very quiet, eyes still closed. “This was.”

She flinched. “I know.”

Tim opened his eyes then, but not to look at her. “Maybe Delroy deserved to die. But for you to…” he shook his head. “I don’t know. Don’t like that you decided to do it this way.”

“You’d rather I’d gotten you to shoot him?” she asked, curious, not accusing.

He thought about it, then nodded. “’S my job. Shouldn’t be yours.”

It rocked her then, almost literally in her chair. Tim wasn’t angry she’d done all that without him. He was sad she’d done it at all. _Now you know how I feel about you,_ she wanted to say. _You shouldn’t feel like it’s your ‘job’,_ she wanted to say that too. “You’re okay with that?” she asked instead.

He shrugged.

“How long till I can sleep again?” she asked next, surprising herself.

He shrugged again. “You know there ain’t an answer for that.” Then, obviously trying to make her feel better, he added, “Be glad for it.”

“What?”

Tim looked down at his hands, the rough skin, scars on his knuckles. Gun calluses. “I threw up the first time I killed a man.”

She tried to smile and not coddle him at the same time. “You were, what, nineteen probably? Of course you-”

“Sixteen.”

She stopped. Stared. “What?”

He lifted one shoulder, dropped it. “I was sixteen. Guy had a knife, jumped me and a friend. Beat us up good. Was close to killing my friend, so I went for his knife, fought him. Blade ended up in his…” Tim gestured to his chest. “Died before the cops even got there.”

“You didn’t get in trouble?” she wasn’t sure why she asked, maybe just to keep him talking.

He shook his head. “Small town. Cops knew me. Had to go through processing shit, but it was ruled self-defense.” He gave a not-smile. “Guess that means it doesn’t even count as my first real kill, then.”

“Tim,” she shook her head, reprimanding on instinct. She didn’t like when he got that look, made a joke out of the shit he’d had to do.

He shook his head right back. “Ava, my point is- you should feel sick. Wrong. Killing someone ain’t supposed to feel natural.”

She stood up without him realizing, came closer. “Hey.”

He kept talking. “It’s like a disease, okay? Shaking afterwards, throwing up- it’s like your body’s way of getting rid of the disease. Be glad you can get rid of it.”

She was standing next to where he sat now, looking down at him. “Tim, honey-”

“It means you’re human,” he kept on. “Means your head’s on straight. Means you’re not…” he didn’t want to say the words, she didn’t want to hear him say them. _Like me._

Before she could stop herself or he could move, she wrapped her arms around him tight, holding on. “Thank you,” she murmured.

He didn’t say anything back. Didn’t move at all, at first. Then one hand came up to touch the arm draped across his chest. He held on.

She did too, even tighter. Bowed her head over his, wishing she could say the words out loud. _You’re a good man. You’re okay. We’re okay._ “Tim,” she kept her voice low. “Nothing you say to me is ever gonna change how I…” she felt him nod a little, letting them both off the hook for having to say it out loud. She hugged him close and, feeling bold, kissed the top of his head before pulling away.

Tim still avoided eye contact, which was for the best as she wiped away a few tears. “Quit drinking so much,” she ordered instead. His mouth quirked up a bit, a good enough smile. She felt herself go lighter. Relieved? Something. “Or else,” she added.

He looked up at her finally. Still very tired, but maybe a little relieved too. “What are you gonna do,” his voice was only a little hoarse, “shoot me?”

It should’ve made her flinch. It didn’t. She smacked him on the shoulder, let her hand linger there for a bit. They weren’t all better, but they were okay. They were. “Too easy,” she smiled instead, tugged on his shoulder to get him upright and into the house. “I wouldn’t dare put you out of your misery. You’re stuck with me, Timmy.”

He rolled his eyes but let himself be led inside, up the stairs. She watched him go into his room before sneaking back into her own, sliding back into bed. It felt comfortable this time.

A few seconds later, Boyd’s arm found its way around her, held her close. She smiled and leaned back into him. Still a little shaky, but no longer hot and cold and terrified of herself. “Everything okay?” he asked into her, still half asleep.

“Yeah,” she whispered, sinking into the pillow and into his arms. “We’re okay.”

***

The car ride to the sheriff’s station was blessedly quiet. For the first few minutes, at least. He wasn’t sure why he expected any different with Boyd.

“I have some… news I need to share with you,” he began, almost cautious.

It put Tim a little on edge. “Guessing by your hesitation, it ain’t good news.”

Boyd smiled. “It ain’t.” Then the smile dropped away. “Dickie Bennett’s getting out of Tramble.”

Tim nodded, clenched and unclenched his fists. “What the hell for?”

“Bureaucracy, who knows,” Boyd shook his head but kept his eyes on the road. “But he is. I’m not telling you this to warn that he might come after you-”

“You’re warning me not to go after _him_ ,” Tim finished for him.

Boyd smiled again. “I’m not Ava, I’m not worried about where your head’s at. I trust you on that front explicitly. But,” he tilted his head, “if you decide to take your revenge on him now-”

“Our revenge,” he corrected with a mumble.

It made the smile on Boyd’s face grow wider, genuine. “Our revenge on him now, I think it’ll just put all of us in hot water we don’t need.”

Tim thought it over, weighed Boyd’s logic against his own desire to put a bullet in the man who put a bullet in him and Ava. Thought about his talk with Ava a few nights ago. “Let’s deal with one asshole at a time,” he said, hoping Boyd heard his agreement in it, pointing to the rental car parked outside the sheriff’s station.

Boyd really grinned now, hungry for this moment. Ready. “A good plan, that is indeed,” he said as he got out of the truck.

“Quit talking like Yoda,” Tim mumbled again again as he followed.

Boyd obviously pretended not to hear him. “I wish I could be inside there right now, watching Napier realize he’s done.”

“This is close enough,” Tim warned him. Sometimes Boyd’s enthusiasm got the better of him, but dealing with the Detroit mob probably wasn’t the best time for it.

Sure enough, Raylan’s favorite albino-looking-nemesis stormed out of the station a minute later, buttoning up his suit jacket, the picture of ‘washing his hands of the whole thing’. Tim was surprised by how relieved he was for that.

“Oh, Mr. Quarles,” Boyd stepped forward out of the shadows, Tim forced forward too, just a few steps behind him.

He studied Quarles while Boyd gave his own version of a victory speech. Tim could feel his eyes narrow, back grow tense. Something was off. He’d been right, he realized, when he’d first given Boyd his opinion of Quarles. Dangerous denial, goes a little crazy at the first real indication that he’s going to lose. Tim took in Quarles, his hard and over-bright eyes, jittery hands.

Quarles was maybe about to go a little crazy.

Tim hoped it was an internal combustion and didn’t take out all of Harlan with it. He shifted unconsciously into a more-ready stance as Boyd delivered his parting shot, “I hope you enjoyed your stay, and you never forget who packed your bags.”

Quarles stared Boyd down, neither of them flinching. He finished buttoning up his jacket… and smiled. Tim forced himself not to shift around uneasily, especially when Quarles turned that smile to him. Looked Tim up and down slowly, pointedly. Really goddamn fucking creepy.

Tim kept still, kept his face dry and unimpressed, but it was a near thing. He was actually _relieved_ when Quarles looked away, back to Boyd for a second before walking away. He waited a good minute before deflating, his shoulders damn near sore from being so tense. “Fuck, I hate when Raylan’s right,” he sighed. “But that man’s a psycho.”

“Tim,” Boyd hadn’t relaxed, was still staring after the rental car as it drove off. “It might be prudent for you to be careful going anywhere alone next few days.”

Tim shrugged away Boyd’s worry, his own worry at Boyd’s. “Thanks to you and Ava, when do I really get to be alone anymore?”

“Tim,” Boyd turned to him now, still serious. Insistent. “Be careful. Understand me? I don’t like the way he was looking at you just now.” Turning back to the truck, walking away and calling over his shoulder, “And don’t you say a goddamn word about me defending your honor.”

Tim glared at Boyd’s back. “Don’t go anywhere alone, don’t make jokes. You got any more rules for me? When did you turn into Ava?”

Relieved once more when Boyd relaxed, smirked at him from the truck. “A good point. Next time should I just give you a hug?”

He really glared now. “I hate-”

“I know you do. Now hurry and get in the truck. We have to move Shelby into his new office. Got a lot to do, you and I,” Boyd was back in victorious mode.

Obnoxious was better than concerned. “Quit talking like Yoda.”

***

Raylan was getting really damn tired of people coming to the bar to menace him. He wasn’t one to be menaced. He was one to drink until he was ready to pass out upstairs. Not be menaced.

Especially not by creeps like Robert Quarles and Wynn goddamn Duffy. Raylan held his ground, smirked even, as Quarles got closer to him. Half his mind kept tabs on all the people around them, the stupid college kids with no idea-

“Here’s what I’m going to do,” Quarles enunciated so perfectly, even though Raylan could detect a shake in his hands, in his voice. “I’m going to take a baseball bat to your daddy’s head, then kill your friend Boyd as slow as I can.”

Raylan smirked some more. Really? Threatening to kill _Arlo_ was supposed to goad him?

“And your friend Tim. I’m going to use him up, leave him broken on the side of a road somewhere. A ditch. And then?” he stepped even closer. “I’m gonna kill you, Raylan. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but some day you’ll be walking down the street and I’m gonna put a bullet right in the back of your skull and you’re gonna drop.”

Raylan let him get a few steps to the door before things other than that tiny logical part of his brain took over. He pulled his gun, fired into the ceiling. “U.S. Marshal, I want everyone out of the bar. Right now.” He was pretty sure he flashed his star, but people had already starting running at the gunshot. He didn’t care. Kept his eyes on Quarles, who just seemed _delighted_ by this.

Raylan shrugged, smiled back. “Why wait?”

Quarles looked like he wanted to clap his hands with glee. Nearly did. “Was it the threat to Boyd or to Tim that did it?” he asked giddily. “I know you’ve got a soft spot for the two, I just-”

“No, see, no more talking,” Raylan cut in. “This is how this is gonna go. You draw, I put you down.”

The bar went quiet. Near silent. “Uh,” Duffy chose that moment to speak up, damn near raising his hand stupidly. “Who’s Tim?”

The sound of another gun loaded cut off Raylan’s answer. Lindsey appeared behind the bar, shotgun racked and ready. “Get the hell out of my bar.”

Normally Raylan would love to appreciate the sight of a beautiful woman handling a firearm so confidently, but now he was just annoyed. He wanted to put Quarles down. “It’s all right. I-”

“It’s not all right, there’s a bullet hole in my ceiling and two strange men in my bar. Who need to get. The hell. Out.” She held the shotgun up higher, took a step closer.

He was a little impressed, but still mostly annoyed. Just a _hint_ of a gun from the man was all he needed. 

But Robert Quarles was nothing if not a contrary son of a bitch. He smiled some more, gave Raylan a little wave and nod, and left, calling for Duffy as he went. Raylan watched them both go, hand staying on his holster. 

“Okay, Raylan,” Lindsey said after another moment of silence, setting her shotgun back down behind the bar. “What was all that about?”

That, Raylan realized, was the beginning of a giant shitstorm coming Harlan’s way.

He definitely had a few calls to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any mistakes and typos up there^ are totally my own damn fault for watching tonight's Breaking Bad while I was trying to get the post together. Oops/sorry/forgive me!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which shit kinda hits the fan several times. And in which, if Tim believed in fate, he'd be really pissed off at the universe. And in which he's kinda pissed of at the universe anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight warning? There's talk about PTSD, and a flashback that has some ugly images and gore, I guess. Very short though. But if war wound stuff isn't your thing, skip the section ahead that's in all italics, k?

“It’s funny,” Tim commented lazily, after holstering his gun and taking out his earplugs. “Boyd is better at these talks than you are.”

“That’s all you got to say?” Raylan was still staring down the length of the range at the targets, his earmuffs on the table in front of him. When Tim didn’t respond, he holstered his own gun and turned to glare. “I tell you the guy who _shot_ you is out of prison, and a mobster whose afterschool activities make me more than a little uncomfortable threatened you specifically by name… and that’s all you got to say.”

He grinned and nodded. “Bugs you, doesn’t it?”

Raylan surprised him; his expression stayed serious, genuine. “Tim. This probably ain’t something you should dismiss so easily.”

He sighed, sad his fun times were over. “Look, it’s not like Dickie Bennett’s the first person to shoot me and get away with it.” He had a scar or two on his shoulder to prove it.

Raylan registered the weight behind that. “I guess Kentucky does resemble a war zone sometimes,” he mused. Then he shook his head. “Still. Best to be careful. Dickie may still be pissed about his brother getting shot right in front of him.”

“Know what else is funny,” Tim kept up his unruffled delivery, even if Raylan wasn’t in the mood. “I can actually say I shot the sheriff but I did not shoot the deputy.” He pulled his paper target free, studying his hits. Not bad. It took him a few more seconds to realize there was only silence next to him. He looked over to Raylan, who was just glaring at him. Tim sighed again. “Quarles. I know, I got it, I understand, okay?”

“Do you?” Raylan left his own target where it was. “You know what he’s doing with those rent boys up in Detroit? ’Least one of them is dead, far as I know. Another missing, another couple beaten to a bloody pulp. And that’s all after he… used them.”

“You worried for my virtue?” Tim raised an eyebrow. Not letting Raylan’s words get to him. Because… really? Him? He was almost ten years older than those kids probably were, and guys like Quarles stuck to a pattern. Tim was twenty-nine, scarred all over, and drunk half the time. No, Quarles was just after Boyd, trying to rile him up. Distract him. It wasn’t like _that_ , like Raylan was so worked up about.

“I don’t believe you were born with any virtue,” Raylan threw back, more out of habit than anything. “I’m just doing my duty. Warning you.”

Tim shook his head, the whole thing was absurd. This county was absurd. This _life_ was absurd. “You gonna tell Boyd and Ava too, make sure I got a responsible adult watching over me at all times?”

“Responsible adults?” Raylan’s eyes widened comically. “Where?”

Tim rolled his eyes, even as he was secretly relieved Raylan had snapped out of his weirdly serious mood. Raylan being sincere was just unnatural. He put a fresh target in the hangers, pressing the button to send it back down the range, picked up his ear plugs. “Between keeping them out of trouble and shooting people to save your sorry ass, when exactly would I have _time_ to go off on my lonesome?”

He hadn’t even skipped out of town for weeks, not that he was about to share actual personal information with Raylan. And truth be told, Tim was surprised he wasn’t bursting out of his skin from sleeping in the same place for so long. There was an itch in the back of his mind, sure, but it wasn’t near as strong as he thought it’d be. Ava’s guest room was… comfortable. And between her and Boyd, he had enough books and enough chatter to keep his brain turned off when he needed it. (Though there was never enough liquor.)

Of course, shooting guns helped do that too. He squared his shoulders and then shifted, getting back into his stance. He was about to clear his mind for it when he realized it was too quiet at the next table. Again. “What?” he prompted.

Another beat of silence. “How was Boyd better at this talk than me?”

Tim grinned. “He didn’t make me have one.” He put the ear plugs in before he’d have to hear Raylan’s reply.

***

Tim didn’t know what to do with his hands. 

It was a strange thought to have, to fixate on, but focusing on his own hands meant he didn’t have to watch how Mark’s couldn’t stop shaking. He twitched a little, fighting back the weird impulse to reach out and and grab them, hold them still. Instead, he folded his hands together in his lap like a schoolboy. Or a soldier. Calm, steady. 

His hands were always calm and steady. That was their job.

“Jeremy told me you were in Kentucky, I didn’t believe it at first,” Mark was talking as fast as his hands moved. If Tim just focused on that, it was okay. Mark always talked too fast, too much. 

“Been here little over a year,” Tim half-grunted the words out, feeling his taciturn nature stand out all the more with Mark acting like this, without the rest of the guys there to buffer it. “Sorry. If I’d known…”

“Hey man, no, it’s cool,” Mark jumped into his pause, handing over a glass of something amber- Tim was grateful without even knowing what it was- and sitting in the chair across from him. “I’ve only really looked up a few guys since getting back.”

Tim just nodded. “How’s the leg?” He could do this- they both could. They could both pretend they were sober and fine. Sunshine and rainbows and puppies and whatthefuckever else. 

Mark bobbed his head more than nodded. “Good, good. Well. Better, I guess,” his fingers tapped sporadically at the brace that wrapped nearly from ankle to thigh. “Two more surgeries and I should be ’bout done.”

He grimaced sympathetically. “And everything else?” He forced himself not to glance around the room. Mark’s apartment was just a little on the dark side, like he’d forgotten to replace a lightbulb or two around the place. Boxes were still unpacked, even though he knew from Jeremy that Mark had moved in months ago. The one meager trashcan in the place was near-overflowing. A fly buzzed nearby, caught between it and the window.

The hesitation that lasted three seconds too long told Tim everything. “It’s fine, I guess.” Mark shrugged. “Working construction for my uncle, ain’t bad. Kinda like when we used to help build those schools in Kabul, remember?” He didn’t wait for Tim to answer; Tim didn’t have the energy to anyway. “Funny, man, I’m doing the same stuff over here I did over there. You know?”

_I’m still shooting people,_ Tim thought, angry for some reason. _So yeah, I fucking know._ But he just nodded.

“Pay’s not great,” Mark amended, coming down off his peppy mood swing. “I can’t do all the work, you know, and they keep changing the schedule on me-” Meaning Mark forgot to show up a lot, Tim read between the lines there. “But it’s work. I’m doing… Did you hear about Wills?”

Tim blinked at the abrupt change of subject. “Ernie?”

Mark nodded, reaching into his pocket for a prescription bottle. “Took one to the head. Like a week ago.” Dry-swallowed two or three pills, shoved the bottle away again. “He’d been running ops this year, as a sarge, did you know that?”

Tim shook his head. “Where?”

“Kandahar, I think,” Mark pulled the bottle out again, noticed Tim noticing, and put it away quickly. “Now he’s under Arlington.”

Tim let himself feel it, just for a second. Wills had been one of the good ones, a career guy. Fuck, Tim was pretty sure he’d been married, too. “How’d Bert take it?” Casey Bertens had been Wills’s spotter, his go-to guy since enlistment. Tim was pretty sure they’d been dubbed Bert and Ernie before they were out of Basic.

Mark looked down, relatively still for once. Somber. “No one knows. He got discharged when you did, and he didn’t…” Mark shrugged. “Guess he’s been off grid for months. Somewhere in North Dakota, maybe? Last anyone heard..”

“Shit.” Tim fought against bringing a hand to his collarbone, his chest. Where he got the worst of it, where his own discharge began. “Was I considered off grid?”

Mark grinned a little at that, jumpy again. “Nah, we know you, man. You take care of yourself, by yourself. Always have.” Forgetting, he pulled out the pills again. Two more down. "And you're always just there again when we need you."

Shiiiiiiiiiiiit, Tim didn't want to dig deeper into that. Mark was sucking down oxy like they were altoids, and if drowning was the appropriate metaphor here, Mark was treading in some dangerous depths.

And Tim was 'just there again.'

"Speaking of, man, how are your bug bites?" Mark was smiling wide.

Tim managed a smile back, pulling the neckline of his shirt to the side, revealing a few scars. "Don't itch anymore."

Mark chuckled, uneven. Stoned. "Was that the sniper or the roadsider? Shit, I can't even remember them all anymore. Blur together in my head." The pill bottle was magically back in his hand.

Tim blew out a breath. Maybe it was a sigh. And maybe Mark was taking more pills than usual because Tim was here, because Tim reminded him of how fucked up he was and why. Tim wasn't actually sure it mattered. "Mark." He waited for eye contact, jumpy though it was. "How much oxy are you supposed to take a day?"

Mark flinched, surprised he'd been caught. It made Tim a little sad for him. Mark had always been such a sneaky bastard, proud of how good he was at pranks, at getting intel, at- "I'm fine, Bug."

"Yeah," he grunted, feeling sick and hollow. No one had called him that in a long time. "No, you're not."

Mark's eyes narrowed, flashing. "Jeremy sent you here to have an intervention? Act all disapproving and shit?"

"No," Tim didn't move, not even to shake his head. "You think I can't see it for myself?"

"Fuck you, Gutterson," he was up on his feet, barely wincing at the pressure put on his leg. Of course he wasn't wincing, he probably had two or three times the regular dose of painkillers in his system. "You don't get to show up after a year of jack shit nothing and sit there and judge me. You got both your legs, you got a job, you-"

"You got those things too," Tim cut in, still calm. "You're just ruining them."

"Fuck you," he spat again.

Tim just waited. The anger ran out quickly, as he knew it would. Mark had always been quick to anger and just as quick to calm. "Doesn't have to be this bad," he said then, quiet. "Not saying it'll ever be great, fuck if I know, but it doesn't have to be this bad." He pulled a card out of his wallet, set it on the coffee table between them.

"What's that?" Mark didn't reach for it, still trying to hold onto some higher ground.

"Guy gave it to me a few months ago." MJ, from the range, had offered it after a night of way too many drinks and sharing way too many memories. "VA program near here. All confidential, all vets. There's meetings, and docs at a free clinic. You won't have to worry about insurance or nothing." Tim would make sure of that. "Okay?"

Mark picked up the card hesitantly, like it might bite him. "Why'd he give it to you?"

Tim’s turn to shrug. "He didn't want it. Maybe he thought I could pass it along to someone who does."

It was a sign of how far gone Mark was that he bought that excuse. "You think I need it?"

Tim didn't glance around the room again, though he wanted to. "I do." He also wanted to finish his drink and get the hell out. Fuck Jeremy and Sarah for telling him to check on Mark. He wanted to go back to Harlan where bug bites were from mosquitos, not bullets. Where he was just the guard dog, not Gutterson, not Bug, not Hawkeye, or any other ridiculous fucking nickname.

Tim was used to being shorter than most guys, had been for most of his life. So he wasn't surprised by the Tiny Tim jokes first few days of training. His natural snark and overall surliness had changed the name to Scrooge soon after that, then Humbug when they realized he wasn’t bluffing about just how many of his shots hit their targets. Soon it was just Bug, and bullet wounds were bug bites.

It was all so cute, Tim wanted to throw up.

But he shook himself free of stupid nostalgia, sitting on Mark's couch, sipped his drink and watched Mark put the card in the same pocket as his oxy bottle. Good. That meant he'd have to see it again.

And then Mark perked up again, tantrum forgotten. "Hey, did you hear Lucky's a writer now? Got, like, a book deal and everything."

Tim was saved from having to roll his eyes- of course fucking Lucky got what was probably a six figure deal, of fucking course- when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Tim checked; it was Boyd. He looked up at Mark, "Sorry, I gotta..." Mark waved a hand, unconcerned, so Tim answered. "Yeah?"

"Not the most professional or polite greeting there, Timothy."

Tim closed his eyes, waited a few seconds, tried again. " _Yeah?_ "

Boyd chuckled, but Tim could hear the forced lightness behind it. "Interesting new developments in the quest to solve a few of our problems."

Which could mean Dixie Mafia, could mean the Bennett money, could mean... "You gonna tell me or keep talking in circles?"

"If you'd like the short and straight line- Dickie Bennett wants me to rob a bank for him."

Tim set his jaw, hung up without a word, and looked to Mark. "I gotta go." He threw back the rest of his drink and stood. "Get yourself in the program, Mark. Go to the meetings. Don't be another fucking casualty, got it?"

"Yes sir." He wasn't sure if Mark's answer was sincere, instinct, or sarcastic. He didn't have time to stay and figure that out.

He was about to leave it at that, but paused in the doorway. "Call me if you- if you need something." It was the best he could do. Maybe he could get Jeremy to check in on him more?

But right now, he had a whole other mountain of shit to deal with. Goddamn Dickie Bennett.

***

"Something's not right about this and you know it," he found himself saying later. He wanted to shift his stance, but every instinct and muscle memory kept him perfectly still.

"Of course I know it. Otherwise I wouldn't have you in a nest across the street right now," Boyd sounded way too patient with him.

Tim hated that. "Would've served you right if cops and marshals had been waiting at the bank for you," he grumbled.

"Can't arrest a man for taking a stroll, Arlo or Ava neither," Boyd pointed out.

Tim kept his phone cradled between his ear and shoulder, readjusting his grip on his scope. He preferred it to binoculars anyway. Johnny's bar was in clear focus from his view on the roof across the street. "He seem more than a little off to you lately?"

"Who, Arlo?" Boyd sounded like he was getting into his truck, Tm wondered where. "He's an old man, Tim. They're all a little off."

Tim rolled his eyes, dropped the subject. It wasn't just old age, they all knew it. Alzheimer's or something, maybe a- "Hang on."

"What's going on?"

Tim watched as Limehouse's man exited the bar at gunpoint. Dickie's gun. He sighed. "Looks like Dickie's taking Errol what's-his-name on a stroll of their own. With a sawed-off."

"Cousin Johnny?" 

"Not with them." Tim stored his scope in his rifle case, moved to the fire escape on the other side of the building. "If I was a betting man, which I am, I'd bet they're heading to the next place Limehouse feels like lying about."

"Are you following them?"

"Course." Tim started his truck, eased onto the street a safe distance back from the piece of shit car Dickie was driving. "You coming to check on Johnny?"

"Of course," Boyd said right back. "After I swing by Ava's."

Tim narrowed his eyes. He'd thought maybe Boyd was already there. "Where are you now?"

"Had some business to attend to at Audrey's," Boyd sounded way too casual about that.

"Business?"

"Finally spoke to that man you mentioned, Mr. Wynn Duffy."

"He was at Audrey's?" Tim's attention was torn between that and Dickie's car taking a turn out of town. Towards Lexington?

Boyd paused just long enough to make Tim a little suspicious. "We spoke on the phone, actually. He had an interesting proposition, one that could take care of our carpetbagger problem and make us some friends in the Dixie Mafia, if all goes well."

"If," Tim grunted. "And I thought Quarles was gone back to Detroit."

"Not quite," Boyd said no more than that. "I'll fill you in at a less pressing time."

"Oh good, can't wait," Tim sighed. "I gotta deal with your other interesting proposition first." Still wondering where Dickie was headed, a few random dots started to connect in his mind. "That girl Mags was looking after. Would Limehouse know where she's at now?"

He felt himself glare through the phone at Boyd's surprised laugh. "I'll be damned."

"I'm not calling Raylan," he snapped before hanging up.

But of course he did. By the time he got to the pretty, cookie-cutter street, he could see Raylan's car parked a block away from the cookie-cutter house in question. Nobody was in the car. But then, Raylan liked theatrics, he was probably waiting inside.

Tim parked a little farther away after making sure there weren't other marshals around. Not yet, at least. He sat and waited while Dickie forced Errol into the trunk of the car. Waited another minute as Dickie broke into the house.

It really was a piece of shit car, and Tim had no problem jimmying the trunk open. He kept a step back just in case Errol tried to fight his way out. Which he did, going still once he saw Tim there, gun out but pointed down. "You might just want to go."

Errol blinked, climbed out of the trunk carefully. "Boyd's here?"

"Nope," Tim glanced around for effect. "Just me. And, in about two minutes, probably a shit ton of law enforcement and federal marshals. So. You might just want to go."

"Dickie?" Errol looked to the house.

Tim shook his head. "Inside. For now. So's Deputy Givens, though, so I think we can predict how that'll turn out."

Errol nodded, still very confused. "Why'd you let me out?"

Tim shrugged. "You getting arrested or suffocating wouldn't exactly help relations between our bosses, would it?" First time he'd ever referred to Boyd as his boss. It felt weird. "Besides," another shrug, "your ma was nice to me."

He was still confused- hell, Tim was too- but the sound of cars approaching had them both moving. Dickie had left the keys in the ignition, so Errol took off in the shitty car while Tim made it back to his truck with seconds to spare.

Marshals and local cops immediately swarmed the house, leading Dickie out a minute later, Raylan and his stupid hat following. Tim gave it a few more minutes, debating which route to take to avoid being spotted, when one of the figures detached from the crowd and approached him purposefully. Shit.

Well, at least it wasn't Raylan.

No way around it, Tim braced his elbow out his still broken window, totally bland expression on his face. "Evening, Chief."

"Mr. Gutterson," Art Mullen stopped right next to him, eyeing him with some weary mix of suspicion and resignation. "Nice night for a drive?"

He shrugged. "I thought so. Guess crime really does happen everywhere. Even the suburbs ain't safe."

Half-laugh, half-sigh, and Art was studying him again. "I thought maybe it was Boyd who tipped Raylan off. Should've expected you here."

Tim blinked innocently. "Chief, Boyd is at home having dinner with his girl. Or robbing a bank, depending on who you ask."

Definitely a laugh this time. "Your home too, from what I hear."

Tim had nothing to add to that, no good joke, so he stayed quiet and watched the scene again. He resisted the urge to wave at Dickie when he was placed in a squad car. "Raylan _did_ get the girl and foster family out of the house first, right?"

Art nodded. "They're back at our office, waiting it out." Another curious look to Tim. "He had time to do it, thanks to your call."

Tim shrugged. What was he supposed to reply with? A joke about actually having a heart? A joke about not wanting to clean up more dead bodies? What did this guy expect from him? "Something I can actually help you with, Chief, or you just hate talking to Raylan that much?"

He was being studied again, sharper than he'd been giving the man credit for. "Seems to me you've already helped our outfit a bit lately. You always seem to just be here when we need something." The weirdness of this guy echoing Mark put Tim on edge. "How does that work, exactly? Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays you operate on one side of the law, rest of the week on the other?"

Tim wanted to glare, but swallowed it back, kept his cool. He wanted to leave now. Go back to the bar. It had already been a long goddamn day and he hadn't eaten since before visiting Mark. "You're assuming there's only two sides," he said, tone a little dark, a little angry.

Art was startled by that, he could tell. "In my line of work, you can only have two, son."

That's it, Tim was done. "I ain't in your line of work. And I ain't your son. Are you done counseling for the evening? I got things to do."

He was startled again, and disappointed too. Tim didn't really give a shit. He started up the truck, gave Art a few seconds to step away, and drove off. Ignored the look Raylan threw him from the front of the house. Screw this. He was heading back to the bar. No more theatrics tonight.

***

They'd gotten Dickie Bennett, but no money. Limehouse's man survived, but had escaped. Loretta was okay, but didn't know where the money was either. Tim had helped him out again, but Art had said something to piss him off. Boyd hadn't robbed a bank (yet), but Raylan had no idea where Robert Quarles was.

Raylan had no idea whether to call this night a win or a loss. And so he did what he usually did when he was more than a little directionless. He set out for Harlan county.

He wasn't even sure what he was really looking for now, to the point where he even debated calling Tim to find out what he knew.

But he couldn't, not really. Even without the inevitable smartass comments he'd get from Tim (and Art too), it would be a breach of their usual M.O. Plus, he'd have to tell him he knew about Quarles being locked up in a trailer at Audrey's. And then escaping. He didn't want to talk about Quarles with Tim anymore. And anyway, it wasn't like-

He was embarrassingly grateful when his phone rang. Tom Bergen. "Tom, what've you got for me?"

"Raylan, we got a hit on one of your BOLOs. A Robert Quarles? He's in Harlan."

"Where?" he sped up, eyeing the time, his speedometer.

"Just pulling into Crowder's bar. I'm on my way there, will you be joining us?"

"Yeah, I'll see you soon. Thanks, Tom." He hung up and tossed the phone into the passenger seat, reenergized. Hallelujah. The night might be a win after all.

***

Tim had no idea what the fuck to do. Or what was going on, really. He'd gotten back to the bar just as another car had pulled up, and he'd been completely thrown for a loop when Quarles got out, unsteady, pissed off. Way different than the collected man at the sheriff’s station. This was a guy at the end of his very short and desperate rope. It made Tim nervous.

He'd barely gotten two steps towards Tim when Boyd came running out of the bar. Well, Boyd's version of running. Urgently strolling. He placed himself between Tim and Quarles, talking smoothly, slowly. Tim turned to Johnny, confused, but he just shook his head in warning.

Tim reached for his gun.

***

Duffy watched them from across the street, then turned to Mike. "Blow it."

***

The world exploded.

***

_Tim and Casey were in the back of the Humvee, passing a canteen back and forth, pretending it was whiskey. It was a drinking game- do a shot of water everytime the CO cursed the dust devils around them._

_They were almost drunk- off clean water, fresh air, relief at being done the four day patrol with no radio contact. Those were always unnerving. Now they were headed back, three Humvees of exhausted, sand-crusted Rangers. They'd cleared another road, made headway to getting a village and school back up and running._

_Tim liked these ops. He got to build things. He wasn't sent up to a nest somewhere where the only objective, the only way he wasn't a failure, was someone's head caving in from a bullet._

_"Shit fucking mother-!" The CO slammed his hand against the dashboard. "Can't see the fucking road with these..."_

_Tim turned to Casey, who shrugged, upended the canteen over both their heads. "I think that's game over," he grinned, giggling, hiccuping._

_Tim was laughing too, glad he wasn't on point for the ride back. He looked up at Goliath, the convoy’s spotter, his goggles the same color as the sky, the road. Dust. Dust was its own color. A weird nothing. Goliath caught him watching, water dripping down his face, and grinned, flipping him off. Tim grinned back, opened his mouth to yell-_

_The world exploded._

_Tim lost a few seconds of his life after that. He never felt the Humvee flip and roll. He didn't hear Casey yell, the CO abruptly stop cursing. He didn't feel the heat, the debris, the road rush up to meet him._

_When Tim blinked a few minutes later, the world wasn't dust colored. It was black. Soot. Smoke. (Death.) He coughed hard, feeling something in his chest shift around at that. There was no sound, nothing. Just sand under him, smoke over him. He couldn't move, pretty sure this was Hell._

_Then there was something, noise, a helmet and goggles leaning over him. The other Humvees had caught up. Tim knew he needed to get up. Help. He needed-_

_"Bug, don't move." He couldn't place the voice, his ears too muddled. "It's fine, buddy. Don't move till Ray gets to you, hear me?"_

_Ray was their medic. The one who replaced Angel. If he wasn't with Tim, that meant he wasn't hurt too bad._

_Or everyone else was hurt worse. Tim turned his head towards the heat, and wished he hadn't._

_They had a term for shit like this. Hummus. When a roadsider or IED turned everything to mash. Body parts couldn't keep together. Not vehicles either. The whole front of the one Tim had been riding in was gone. Just fire now. CO was probably in there somewhere. He'd been right about the dust devils._

_He turned back to the guy over him when he started pressing down on Tim's chest and collar bone. Must be bleeding, he realized. "Bert?"_

_The guy- it was Jeremy, thank fuck it was Jeremy, Jeremy hadn't been in his Humvee- glanced around. "Ernie's got him. He's gonna be fine. Stay still, fucker. I'm trying not to break more of your ribs here."_

_Tim turned his head again anyway. Coughed some more as a wind shift sent more smoke his way. When it cleared a bit again, he saw Ray standing up from a pile of... partly tac gear, singed and crispy. Partly a body. Some of a body. A tattoo was visible on what was left of an arm. Goliath. He used to be a good eight inches taller than Tim._

_Used to be._

_More coughing, as the smell finally registered. Jeremy was talking again, but he couldn't hear it. It was all getting drowned out in a roar, someone yelling orders, someone yelling in pain._

_There was a gunshot. That didn't make sense, did it? He tried to ask Jeremy, couldn't get his lungs to work. An ambush? Another attack? Tim couldn't get to his gun._

_A different voice suddenly yelling, a drawl of an accent, something about an officer down. Of course a fucking officer was down, half the fucking guys here were fucking officers. Tim tried to ask what the hell was going on, but Jeremy was gone._

_It was dark now, stars above him. Not sand under him, but real concrete. What the fuck? What-_

_"Tim. What the hell happened?"_

_It wasn't Jeremy or Ray or Ernie. A long, lean shadow. A cowboy hat. Calling him Tim? Nobody called him that. Half the unit probably didn't even know his real name._

_"Tim, damn it-!"_

_He wanted to tell the shadow to fuck off, but his lungs still weren't cooperating. That smell of burned rubber and metal was still too strong._

_"Who shot the trooper?"_

_Tim managed to get a hand to his chest, pressed down, tried to push and get his lungs working again. Nothing. And what the fuck did he mean by trooper? Was that the gunshot?_

_Another voice answered the shadow, shouting a name. Tim couldn't track them anymore. The sound of more vehicles pulling up, more yelling. Another voice he should recognize. Did recognize. He just couldn't breathe well enough to figure it all out._

_It wasn't fair. All the not-dying he'd done, unraveled by one roadside bomb._

_Tim couldn't breathe._

***

Art surveyed the scene, unsure of where to start. A state trooper shot, had bled out and died on the way to the hospital. Shooter- only identified by Johnny Crowder, wonderful- fled the scene. And the only two other possible witnesses were nearly taken out by a goddamn car bomb.

Art really hated Harlan county.

He moved then, as Rachel and Dunlop came out of the bar announcing Boyd was awake. Art motioned for Nelson to follow Raylan back in, figuring he was big enough to hold Raylan back from beating anyone to death.

Speaking of...

Art moved to the last ambulance. "Didn't think I'd be seeing you again so soon."

Gutterson was sitting- tense, not leaning back- on an upright stretcher, breathing into an oxygen mask. His face and shirt were singed, one hand clenched into a fist in his lap, the other holding onto the mask. He didn't look up at Art's approach, didn't acknowledge it at all.

Art frowned. "Gutterson?"

There was a twitch, something instinctive, but he was still looking down, unresponsive. His hands were shaking, Art realized.

The paramedic shook his head. "Hasn't said anything besides refusing any other treatment."

Art looked at him sharply. "He need any?"

The medic hesitated for a moment, until Art flashed his star. Get on with it. "Knock to the head when he was thrown from the blast, heart rate way faster than I'd like. Just now getting his breathing under control."

Panic attack, Art's brain supplied. He'd worked and interacted with enough vets over the years. Car bomb must have triggered something. All the investigating he and Rachel had done on this kid, he'd never thought to look into PTSD or anything.

He moved to stand directly in front of Tim, a foot or two away, spoke calmly and clearly. "Gutterson." This time Tim looked up at him, mostly focusing. He maybe tried to glare but was too exhausted and cagey. Art kept his demeanor up, irrationally angry at his own paternal heart strings. "Did you see who shot the state trooper?"

It took another few seconds, but Tim finally shook his head. He pulled the mask clear, handed it back to the medic. "No. C'n I go?"

Art tried not to wince at his voice. Hoarse, shaky, almost wild. He'd never not seen this kid in complete control. He wondered how often these panic attacks happened. And there wasn't a damn thing Art could do, even though his internal-Leslie (what he called his conscience, it always sounded like his wife) just wanted him to _help this boy, he needs it._

"You're free to go, if you feel up to it." Art stayed as casual as he could. "But if you remember anything or-" he almost said need anything, but could just imagine how that would go over, "-feel the need to help us out again, you give me a call." He held a card out to Gutterson, silently urging him to just take it.

He did, surprisingly, with still-shaking hands. "Call you?" he rasped.

Art threw out a smirk. "Imagine how crazy it'll drive Raylan."

Maybe any other night that would've garnered a smirk or some sort of snappy comeback. Now Tim just nodded woodenly, pocketing the card. He stood slowly, one hand staying on the stretcher for balance, the other at his chest, holding on.

Art sighed at himself, worried again. "Kid, you sure you don't want to go get checked out? Spend a quiet night at the-"

"Timothy."

It took them both a moment to register Boyd there, Johnny and Arlo (when the hell had that asshole arrived?) behind him. Tim cleared his throat. Still not looking at any of them. "Yeah?"

Boyd glanced at Art for just a second, face guarded, before stepping between him and Tim. "You ready?"

Art felt that disappointment again, unsure why, when Tim nodded and moved past Art, following the men to their cars. Art kept watching them, and was surprised when Boyd waved Arlo and Johnny ahead, staying with Tim. He reached out, clasped the back of Tim's neck, saying something. Art was shocked. Boyd looked _concerned_. He'd thought Boyd only cared about himself and Ava Crowder, but this was...

He watched Tim nod to whatever Boyd was saying, maybe even breathing a little easier. Then he got into the passenger seat of Boyd's truck without once looking back at the bar, the aftermath.

Art watched them drive off, then turned back to the crime scene. Time to do his job and clean up some of this mess. He was unsettled, worried by it all. Robert Quarles had laid war on Raylan and Boyd now, and the fight wasn't anywhere near over. Art wondered how much more was about to blow up in their faces.

Best guess? A shit load.

***

“I just don’t think this is a good idea,” Ava said again, hugging herself, watching Tim throw a bag into the back of his truck.

He didn’t grimace, didn’t shrug, nothing. “I need to.”

There was a hitch to his voice Ava hated hearing. Had only ever heard him use in his sleep. The fact that he couldn’t not use it now, couldn’t control it, told her a lot. It was the only reason she hadn’t called Boyd, locked Tim in the attic, something.

She stepped off the porch, down to the truck. “It’s not a good time to disappear, honey.”

He nodded, looking down, looking off to the side, anywhere but at her. “Boyd’ll be fine without me for a few days. I’m no good at stealing money anyway, so-”

“Screw that,” she snapped, finally getting his attention. “You think that’s what I give a shit about?”

“I…” he started, stopped, waited.

“I give a shit about _you_ ,” she couldn’t keep herself from sounding angry, but maybe he’d respond better to that than worry, anything gentle. “And I’m sorry Tim, but you’re still shook up from last night. I think you should be staying here with me, not going off alone.”

“It’s why I have to,” he protested quietly. “ I- I have to get centered again. Need to get out for just a… little while.”

“How long’s a little while?” she demanded, moved to stand by the driver’s side door, and blocked his path to it. “How will we know when you’re coming back?”

He did shrug then, just a little, looking away. “Left my rifle here.”

She stared at him. “How the hell is that supposed to-”

“’M coming back, Ava” he had to force himself to look her in the eye, and she faltered a little again. His eyes were dulled, so tired, so old. He didn’t like this anymore than she did, but he was suffering right now. “Just need to get out right now.”

Ava stepped up close, put her arms around him. He didn’t hug her back, but he did lean in a little, and she felt her resolve falter some more. “Promise me something?”

“Yeah?” he mumbled into her shoulder.

“Wherever you’re going, if it doesn’t feel like it’s working, you come right back here and we’ll figure something else out. Promise me?”

She waited, waited, and finally he nodded. “Okay.”

She didn’t let go. “Say you promise.”

“I promise.” If he’d been up to fighting form, there would’ve been an eye roll, some other dry comment. But he wasn’t, and there wasn’t. She hugged him a little tighter and, against every instinct and voice screaming in her head, let him go. He was looking down again, but his voice sounded a little steadier when he spoke again. “I’ll be back soon.”

She just nodded, wished like hell Boyd wasn’t off talking to Limehouse again. She wished he was here to talk some sense into Tim instead. He didn’t even know Tim was going. And as weirdly twitchy as Boyd had been with them regarding Mr. Quarles- for reasons he still wouldn’t tell her- he wasn’t gonna like this at all.

But Tim needed to go. As much as she hated it, she understood. The bomb, the flashbacks, the panic attack- she didn’t know details, but she knew Tim was plenty shaken and didn’t trust himself to hold together.

She just didn’t want him to be alone.

Tim nodded a little too, to her, to himself, and climbed into his truck. Ava reached through the window, squeezed his arm. “I’m gonna have my phone on me at all time,” she tried to sound stern, blinking back moisture from her eyes. “We need you, you need us…”

Another nod. “I’ll keep mine on.”

“And answer if I call you?”

“And answer if you call me,” it almost sounded like a vow, and she took it that way. “Thanks, Ava.” That part was mumbled, a little shaky, and it left her smiling.

And she tried to keep smiling as he left her too, driving off out of sight.

***

And for maybe like three hours, Tim was sure he’d made the right decision. He drove on autopilot, his hands and his truck taking him to the campsite he used to frequent when he first came to Kentucky. A nice, quiet site outside Harlan. Very green. No dust, no sand. It was hardly ever crowded, usually just families passing through or college kids on road trips.

He told himself it was what he needed- peace and quiet, fresh air. Lots of leaves and trees and nothing desert-like. His hands were already getting their strength back, his breathing back under control without his chest seizing up painfully.

For like three hours.

And then there was… something. A shout, a woman’s scream cut off too quickly. And there was a part of Tim that just wanted to sigh- couldn’t he have just one day off? But he grabbed the gun he’d packed- not his rifle, and yeah he was kinda regretting that now- tucked it behind his shirt, and made his way as silently as he could over the hill he was camped on.

“Please, God, let it be a fucking bear,” he muttered to himself. The campsite came into view soon enough, a ratty VW bus he guessed some people found charming, a tent, a few supplies. A woman and what looked like her two kids.

No bear. A man, moving erratically, had one of the sons by the neck. A gun, too. Yelling at the woman and older kid.

He was moving too much for Tim to just drop him. Partially behind a tree too, so Tim couldn’t even see for a headshot anyway. He wondered if he could bluff his way through this, pretend to be an off-duty cop? If this was a domestic dispute, he could beat the shit out of the dad, too. That would certainly help get his head back on straight.

Tim drew his gun, stepped out into the clearing, as set and ready as he could be. Almost feeling like himself again. Mostly. “Hey,” he called out sharply. “Let him go or I’ll shoot.”

The woman almost screamed again, frantic as she was. The older kid seemed torn, wanting to protect her and protect what had to be his younger brother at the same time, not able to do either.

But Tim didn’t really bother calculating them as threats or liabilities. Because the man turned to Tim out from the cover of the tree, and for the first time in years Tim’s gunhand froze.

Robert Quarles smiled, eyes lighting up when he recognized Tim. “My lucky day,” he spoke in a harried, uneven voice. Tim recognized it- Mark had spoken the same way. An addict’s voice.

He had the younger kid- fourteen, maybe?- at gunpoint. A shield. His eyes scanned Tim up and down, ran back to the other two behind him, over to the van, back to Tim. Tim shook himself, regripped his gun, pushed away his nerves. “Let him go,” he said again. Firm. Steady.

The smile grew into a grin. “You know, I had a great plan,” he maneuvered himself and the kid closer to the van, Tim following, the woman behind him still panicked. “For this whole county. The state, even.”

“Well, best laid plans of mice and pill pushers,” Tim snapped, not in the mood. “Let him go. Marshals are already out looking for you, you think this’ll help?”

“I had plans for _everything_ ,” Quarles continued like he hadn’t heard Tim. “Even you.”

And that was worrisome. But so was the gun pressed to the poor kid’s head. “It’ll be easier for you to get back to Detroit without a hostage slowing you down,” he tried again, kept his voice even. Almost unimpressed. He continued to inch closer, his gun still ready.

He wanted to just take the shot. Any other time, he probably would. But he was off his game, the panic attack, Quarles himself. He didn’t trust his hands right now. And _that_ pissed him off more than anything.

The man’s eyes lit up then. More worrisome. “I bet it’d be easier to get out if I had you with me,” he almost purred, happy and excited. Too jumpy.

Tim hated himself for hesitating- the kid was terrified, wouldn’t stand a chance alone with Quarles- and got himself to nod. Lowered his gun just a few inches. “Okay. Alright? Let the kid go. I’ll go with you.” He didn’t let his voice shake. He took another step closer, forcing his feet to move when they just wanted to get the hell away from all this.

“I think you misunderstand, boy,” Quarles, in just that moment, suddenly sounded sober and powerful again. An adrenaline rush, probably. “I’m not stupid, see. No, I want you along with me, all- all sorts of fun we can have, but I’m not stupid. What guarantee do I have that you’ll behave?” He pushed the gun harder against the kid. “Drop your gun.”

Shit. _Shit._ He hesitated again, hating himself (again) when the kid closed his eyes, shaking, but there wasn’t anything else he could do. Eyes hardening into a real glare- which just made Quarles more excited- Tim let his gun slide out of his grip, pointing away. He placed it slowly on the ground, hoping he was at least still standing between Quarles and the other two civilians. 

“Mom, are the keys still in the car?” Quarles called out, frustratingly playful. Tim gritted his teeth, keeping his hands out and open.

“Y-yes,” she was almost gasping. “Please, please don’t-”

“Get in. You’re driving,” he ignored her, eyes focused back on Tim.

A part of Tim, the part he blamed on Ava, wanted to turn to the mother, apologize, reassure her, something. But his brain was driven by mission mode now, and he had to keep his focus on the threat in front of him. He walked slowly, carefully, to the van. “Quarles, you can still-”

Quarles reached out as soon as Tim was close enough, without warning, the butt of his gun striking sharp and hard against the side of Tim’s face. It propelled him back against the door of the van, forcing him to reach out to steady himself. “Shit.”

“Tim.” Quarles was icy, freakishly calm. Almost robotic. “You are not in control here. I am. Don’t try anything. Don’t… _suggest_ anything. I will decide what you do, when you do it. Understand?” His grip tightened on the kid, threatening.

Tim glared, blinking blood out of his right eye. “Okay.” Quarles was in control, but he was also unpredictable. Tim elevated himself to Really Fucking Nervous.

“Good.” And then suddenly Quarles was smiling again. Pleasant, excited. Really goddamn fucking creepy again. “Now get in.”

Tim continued his slow movements, climbing into the driver’s seat. He used the bottom of his shirt to wipe at his face, mop up the blood trickling down, and was surprised when the kid ended up in the passenger seat next to him. “What’s your name?”

“Mitch,” his voice cracked hard. Shit, maybe he wasn’t even fourteen.

Tim nodded, eyeing Quarles as he said something to the other two, warning them off maybe. “I’m Tim. Listen to me, Mitch. Just stay quiet. Don’t do anything to get his attention. I’ll get you out of this okay?” _Pretty sure it’s me he wants anyway,_ he didn’t say. No need, kid was probably scarred enough now anyway. 

Quarles interrupted their bonding time, taking the seat directly behind Mitch, making sure Tim could see the gun he kept pointed at Mitch’s spine. Leverage. Great. “Drive,” he ordered, somehow angry and happy, desperate and controlled, all at the same time. 

Tim spared a glance then, finally, to the campsite, Mitch’s family, this clusterfuck of a situation. He started up the van and, in that moment as Quarles produced a pair of handcuffs and hooked them around Tim’s wrists through the steering wheel, taking just a little too much time and care to do it…

He really wished he’d just stayed home with Ava.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we bid our carpetbagger a not-so-fond farewell, and Raylan has too many realizations to process at one time (while sober, at least).

“Just too many problems to count,” Boyd was murmuring, more to himself than anyone in the room. Ava looked over at Arlo and Johnny, down at her phone- no messages- and then back to Boyd. “If I just had a little more time…”

She moved in front of him, reaching for his hand. He’d been subdued, so quiet, ever since getting back from Noble’s Holler. “Boyd. What’s going on?”

He shook his head, finally met her gaze. “Somebody knows about Devil.”

She frowned, not sure why he was so disturbed by that. “Limehouse is bribing you…?”

He looked tired, almost sad. No, that wasn’t it, she realized. He looked defeated. He looked like he used to while he was working the mines. Like he’d accepted his fate. “Law enforcement has already been called.”

It hit her in waves. “H-how?” she stammered, her phone forgotten. “Who?”

“Limehouse has always been strangely omniscient, but this one had to have been…” Boyd shook his head, beaten down.

A tip. A betrayal. Someone had to have told Limehouse. And that left very, _very_ few people. “Who?” she demanded again.

“No one else thinks it’s interesting that Tim skips town the same exact moment Boyd finds this out?” Johnny spoke up, so casual, like he didn’t know just what he was suggesting.

Ava glared at him, ready to snap, but Boyd beat her to it. “Skips town and leaves his most prized possession behind?” he nodded to the rifle case in the corner of the room. “You know Tim, cousin Johnny. That ain’t his style. And he wouldn’t do it anyway.” _He wouldn’t do that to me, to us,_ Ava could hear his thoughts.

Arlo, she thought with a rush. All his mumblings and erratic behavior, maybe he… and then another wave of it hit her. Boyd would be arrested for murder. “There’s gotta be something we can do,” she grabbed at Boyd, frantic. It felt like sirens were already going off in her head. No.

Boyd shook his head again. “It’s too late for anything, Ava,” he was too calm, and it just made her more panicked.

“Then run,” she begged. “Go. Take my truck and, and…” she hated that she was crying. “Get away.”

He stood with her, held her face gently. “It’s too late for that as well, love.” The sirens weren’t in her head. They were on the road, approaching the house. Shit. Shit, no.

“Boyd…” she was begging anyway and didn’t know what for this time.

He lowered his voice. “Once Tim gets back, it might be a wise idea for you two to do the same. Get out of town for awhile.”

“What?” she stared at him. This was too much, all of it.

Boyd glanced out the window- cars coming up with driveway- then back to her. “If this all goes the way they want and I’m out of the game… A lot of eyes will be looking at you two. On both sides of the law. It won’t be safe.” He kissed her quickly, and she held on, desperate. “I just want you to be safe.”

“Boyd Crowder.” Cops and, and god damn it Raylan and his boss, were at the door, ready for him.

Ava hugged herself as Boyd stepped away from their embrace, shoulders squared, back straight. He didn’t say word as they cuffed him besides exchanging a few pleasantries with Raylan.

Who then tentatively approached Ava. “Where’s the guard dog?”

_Fuck off,_ she wanted to say, Tim’s voice in her head. But she ignored him, pulling out her phone again instead. She needed Tim. She hit his speed dial with a little force, listening to the line ring and ring. 

Arlo was talking to Raylan now, and the look of guarded surprise on Raylan’s face was peculiar, but Ava didn’t have it in her to care. Boyd was in the back of a squad car, being taken away from her. Tim wasn’t answering his phone.

“Raylan,” the chief marshal, Raylan’s boss, beckoned to him from the door. “Just got word from the locals. A man matching Quarles’ description was spotted outside Harlan. Kidnapped a kid and a Good Samaritan, by the sound of it. Kid’s mother and brother called the cops.”

Raylan followed his boss in a rush, leaving Arlo- and Ava- behind. She really didn’t care. She needed a plan. She needed to figure out who had told Limehouse and the cops about Devil. She needed an alibi for Boyd. She needed…

She needed Tim to answer his phone.

***

The woman had lost the energy to panic by the time Raylan and Art arrived, and was now just exhausted and numb. She repeated her story to Raylan, Art, and the other marshals. A crazy man with white hair had kidnapped her son at gunpoint, along with a young man who had come across them and tried to help. The two strangers had talked like they knew each other, though, and not at all friendly. Mentioned Detroit at one point.

Definitely Quarles.

What was less certain was where he was going. Art seemed sure he’d set out straight for state lines and Detroit, but Raylan was suspicious. He’d need money, protection. Of course, trying to explain his logic to Art was pretty useless at the moment.

Raylan stood by his car, watching the marshals, staties, and locals rush off in different directions, their objectives clear. Raylan though, he wasn’t so clear. He got in his car, debated going back to the office to question Boyd, maybe Noble’s Holler to question Limehouse-

And as if sent by God, his phone rang. It was Tim. Raylan got annoyed with himself for being relieved. Maybe Tim’d have some idea on what Quarles would do next. “Yeah?”

“D-deputy Givens?” A voice that definitely wasn’t Tim’s stuttered over the line. Young. Terrified. “If you don’t do what I say, he’s going to shoot me.”

Raylan felt his entire world shrink down to the phone in his hand. “Who’s this?”

“Mitch,” he almost stuttered again.

The missing kid. Shit. Raylan was willing to bet the house that it wasn’t Tim threatening to do the shooting. “Okay, Mitch, tell him I’m listening.” He heard another voice in the background, deeper, telling the kid what to say. 

But it was Tim’s goddamn phone.

He hadn’t been at Ava’s house.

A Good Samaritan who knew Quarles and didn’t like him had tried to save the kid.

And had been taken along with him by Quarles.

Motherf-

“And if you don’t show up,” the kid had rattled off a location, Raylan memorized it with the part of his brain not cursing up a storm. “He’s going to- to kill us.”

Us.

“Mitch, it’s okay. You can tell him I’m coming, everything will be fine.” Raylan pulled out of the parking lot. “The guy whose phone this is, Tim. He there with you?”

There was a pause, a careful, “Uh-huh.”

Well, at least there was that. “Okay. If anything happens and Tim tells you to do something, you do it. Okay? He’ll keep you safe. And tell Mr. Quarles I’m on my way right now.” Tim would protect the kid if he could, Raylan knew that.

Now he just had to figure out how to protect all of them from Quarles.

The drive to the clearing (near Noble’s Holler, so at least Raylan’s instincts were still batting a thousand) was too short, even with stopping at his place to grab something important. Raylan only had time for fragments of plans, nothing coming together. He’d have to play along with Quarles for the time being, and that made him nervous.

As did the sight that greeted him. Quarles was standing there, Raylan could see the twitchiness in his bones, the kid in front of him like a shield. Gun to his head. When Raylan stepped out of his car he looked past them to the VW bus. He could see Tim in the driver’s seat, and wondered what had happened to keep him there, not escaping, not standing with the rest of them.

Shit, Ava was going to murder him with a frying pan if he let something happen to Tim now, after everything.

“Drop your weapon, Raylan,” Quarles snapped the second he was in hearing range.

Raylan did as he was told, then kept his hands out and empty. “How ’bout you let the kid and Tim go now. Two hostages seems kinda greedy, but three? That’s a lot to manage. Save some for the other lowlifes, you know?”

Quarles either didn’t hear him or pretended not to. “Get in the van. We’re a little behind schedule, and still need to stop by my accountant on the way out of town.”

That’d be Limehouse. Of course. Raylan took one step forward. “You need Mitch for that? Maybe you should-”

Quarles raised his free hand and for a second Raylan thought he was going to throw something at him. Then there was a click, and a small gun appeared in his hand. “Get in the van.”

It was supposed to impress him, or intimidate him. He just raised an eyebrow. “That’s cute.” But he held still as Mitch was sent to get Raylan’s gun, then he walked slowly forward when Quarles gestured with both of his. “Fair warning, I’ve got another gun at my back. Just so’s there no secrets between us.”

He let himself feel a little bit of satisfaction when at least that part went according to plan- Quarles taking back the gun that had murdered Gary. But the feeling was fleeting as he got into the passenger seat, Quarles keeping Mitch and all the weaponry in the back with him.

“Deputy,” Tim greeted him without looking his way.

Raylan nodded. “Nice to see you too, Tim.” It really wasn’t. Ava was going to murder him. “Can’t stay away from the drama, can you?”

Tim may have quirked up one side of his mouth, but it wasn’t anywhere near a smile. “Pot. Kettle.”

“Well,” Raylan started to argue, “I’m really only here because he-”

“Hey,” Quarles hit the back of Tim’s headrest with a gun and a fist, glaring at them. “You’ll have plenty of time to catch up on the drive later. Let’s go.”

Tim apparently already knew where they were going, and he started off without another word. Raylan frowned, thrown by Tim’s… absence of Timness. Of attitude. Raylan gritted his teeth once, not wanting Quarles to see he was getting to him, and took everything in again.

Tim’s hands were cuffed to the steering wheel, his wrists a bloody and raw mess. He’d obviously tried to struggle or get them off at some point. There was a cut above his eye, no longer bleeding but surrounded by a pretty purple bruise. And Tim? Tim wasn’t his normal laid back, unruffled self. He’d actually flinched a little when Quarles hit his seat, gotten too close.

Shit. 

Frying pan. To his head. While he was sleeping.

Ava was going to murder him.

***

It was a weird thing for Tim to realize at this moment- but he’d never been handcuffed before. Even that debacle when he was sixteen, the cops had just escorted him quietly. No cuffs.

He twisted his hands a little again. The metal digging in and cutting his skin hurt, but he had to pull at them or risk losing feeling in them altogether. Dangerous for shooting and- more pressing at the moment- driving a van. He ignored the sticky, too-warm feeling of blood dripping down his hands and arms and concentrated on the building in front of them. One of Limehouse’s slaughter shacks.

That was fucking appropriate.

Raylan hadn’t tried to speak to him again after Quarles shut them up, and Tim was grateful. He was putting too much energy into keeping awareness on Quarles, monitoring the threat. He couldn’t keep up with Raylan-Givens-banter too. Too goddamn tired. 

Twenty-four hours ago a bomb had gone off in his face. For the last three or four hours he’d been stuck with a guy who had a little too much fun ‘accidentally’ touching him, brushing against him, getting too close... 

Tim had to focus on the threat. Nothing else.

As ordered, Tim parked by the shack. He kept his eyes forward and face impassive, but all of his awareness stayed on the man behind him as he ordered Raylan and Mitch out.

Raylan seemed surprised that Quarles was gonna leave Tim in the van, but Tim wasn’t. Quarles wasn’t going to risk uncuffing him, and- as he’d explained… more than once... to Tim on the drive to pick up Raylan- he was saving Tim for later. For when they got ‘home.’

Tim already hated Detroit. No thanks.

He gave Raylan a little nod, _Go,_ when Raylan looked to him for reassurance. That was all the reassurance he had. He waited for Quarles to take Raylan and Mitch inside, then he got to work.

It was the mother’s van. Which meant there had to be a bobby pin or hair clip or something near the driver’s seat. While Quarles had been talking to Raylan earlier, Tim had searched as best he could, managing to find a pin just barely (painfully) within reach on the dashboard. He flattened it now with a few fingers, then twisted it into his cuffs.

Just because he’d never worn handcuffs before didn’t mean he didn’t know how to pick the locks of ’em.

He took a few seconds to shake out his hands to get the feeling back in them (ow, fuck) and grab his cell phone from the back before following the others. He didn’t have a gun, wasn’t even sure if he could hold one right now, but there had to be something he could do.

He slipped into the shack, staying just inside, stuck to the shadows, and took in the whole scene. Raylan to one side, weaponless, Quarles all jittery and laughing, Limehouse with his meat cleaver, hiding how pissed off he really was.

It was like some surreal, tequila-fueled nightmare.

And then bingo. There. Mitch was off to the other side, collecting money for Quarles. Off to the side and crouched down, out of the line of fire. Tim shifted a little when Mitch was facing his direction, catching his eye. He motioned for the kid to keep quiet and slowly move towards him.

And then Errol appeared near Raylan, shooting at Quarles. There was nothing Tim could do about the fight, so he did the next best thing. Putting himself between Mitch and everyone else, he grabbed him by the arm and pulled him out of the building, shoved him towards the van. “His phone,” he kept his voice direct, strong. “It’s in the van. Go call 911.” It was the voice he’d used on rookie grunts.

It worked on Mitch too. Scared but not panicking, he ran for the VW. With the civilian safe, Tim returned to the firefight.

Which was already over. Raylan and Limehouse were left standing. Errol was dead in the corner, and Tim let himself have moment to think about what a waste that was. Quarles was on the ground, surrounded by a ridiculous amount of blood. Raylan was holding his arm. 

Tim wondered if he should be reacting to the fact that said arm wasn’t exactly attached to Quarles anymore, and Limehouse’s cleaver was dripping with blood, but he wasn’t. He was tired and hungry. He wondered if Ava had any ice cream at home.

He got back just in time to hear Quarles reveal who really shot that state trooper at the bar. Tim was too tired to really process that too. He wasn’t surprised, though. Arlo had been so out of his head lately. And even in his right mind, he was still an amoral asshole, so…

But hey, Tim really didn’t care right now, he was just so damn tired. He leaned against the doorway, tried to make it look casual and on purpose. “You gonna hold onto that thing for fingerprints?” Better Raylan be annoyed with him than thinking about his daddy murdering a cop.

Raylan blinked, registered Tim standing there. Blinked again and seemed more like himself. “I’d ask if you’re okay, but you’re joking about severed limbs, so all seems about right.” He dropped the arm though, wiping his hands on his jeans in disgust. “Not to sound like a broken record, but if you want to be gone when my co-workers get here, now’d be the time.”

Tim nodded, not even curious enough to wonder how Raylan would explain his absence. He glanced back at where Mitch was still on the phone- operator was probably supposed to keep him on the line until help arrived- and sighed. “Say bye to my new friend for me, ’kay?”

Raylan ambled his way over to the door. “I feel like I should apologize for you being involved in this shit.”

Tim paused a bit before responding. “Well, that wasn’t technically an apology, but I’ll allow it.”

Raylan still looked uncomfortable, which told Tim exactly where this was going. “Before I got there, today, I hope Quarles didn’t…” he trailed off, unsure.

Tim kept him in agony for a few seconds more before using the last of his energy to find a smirk for him. “Shit, this is you being tactful, isn’t it?” He waved a hand. “He didn’t. Okay? Threatened it, gave an… idea of what he had in mind, but-” he shrugged. “I got standards. Don’t go that far on a first date.”

Raylan accepted that, both of them relieved to drop the subject. Tim let his shoulders drop some too, exhaustion trying to creep in again, but forced himself to walk over to Limehouse.

“Mr. Gutterson,” Limehouse eyed him, a bit more subdued than usual.

“Mr. Limehouse,” he hesitated, tired enough to accidentally let Limehouse see the hesitation, then continued. “Give my condolences to Errol’s mother.”

Limehouse let Tim see his surprise at that, so maybe they were even. “I’ll do that.”

It gave Tim the courage to keep going. “I can’t promise I won’t tell Ava and Boyd where the money’s been all this time,” he nodded to the cut-open pigs. “It is funny, though. I like it.” He was too tired to censor himself, apparently.

“Fair enough,” Limehouse was smiling some. “Of course, I can’t promise I won’t go looking for you if other white boys try to come up here and steal my hogs.”

He almost laughed. “Fair enough.” Adrenaline was completely failing now. He turned, trying to calculate how long of a walk it was to the bridge and the main road. He’d have to call Ava or Boyd to come pick him up-

“Young man,” Limehouse called after him. “You get down to my diner, ask for Jordan. Tell him I said to give you a ride back to Ava’s.”

Tim thought about turning it down- he’d have to keep his guard up for that much longer- but the sincerity in Limehouse’s gaze stopped him. This was an olive branch, maybe. And Tim’s legs were about to give out on him anyway. It’d be fucking embarassing to make it through this whole day only to end up collapsing in front of the Lexington bureau of federal marshals. He nodded. “I will. Thank you.”

Limehouse had the audacity to wave his cleaver in farewell. “I hope I never have to see you in these here parts again, Tim Gutterson.”

Tim really hoped that too.

***

“You think it’s true what they say?”

“Well, what do they say?” Boyd’s voice was so calm and controlled. Which meant on the inside he probably wasn’t. Raylan was getting better at reading that.

He leaned in the doorway to the holding cell but kept his eyes Art and Rachel conducting the initial questioning on Arlo. “One bad apple spoils the barrel.”

Boyd almost chuckled. “I don’t know, Raylan, you seem to think-”

“What I think,” Raylan snapped, turning to him, angry about everything. _Everything._ “Is that you’re the bad apple. And I’m watching everything in Harlan rot, ruin, and die. And I can’t help but think that you’re in the middle of all of it.”

“Mr. Quarles and Dixie Mafia came in of their own accord,” Boyd commented. “I wanted them out same as you.”

“Not same as me,” Raylan argued. “You know how much shit I’ve had to chase after, clean up, and deal with the last few days because of you and your plans? Loretta, Dickie Bennett, Arlo shooting a goddamn state trooper who had a goddamn _family._ Two young kids, Boyd. Limehouse, that kid getting kidnapped, and-”

“And Timothy,” Boyd took over for him. He looked Raylan straight in the eye. “Now, most of the things you listed probably would’ve happened with or without my involvement, Raylan, and you know that. Mr. Quarles was gunning for you as much as he was for me.”

“But?” Raylan prompted, then immediately hated himself for encouraging more words.

“But if it’s any consolation,” Boyd paused, looked down. “I truly do blame myself for what happened to Tim. And he may not be some delicate flower but… but I appreciate you not letting Quarles hurt him.”

It stopped Raylan in his proverbial tracks. “Seriously?”

Boyd looked back up sharply. “I don’t like all the run-ins you two have had- that gun range, taking him to Tanner Dodd’s clinic- putting him where people can notice him…” he stopped yet again, regained his control. “I suppose I’m just as guilty of that particular sin. But he and Ava are safe now, and I want to thank you for your part in that.”

Seriously, then. Raylan wondered if his head might explode. “You really do care about him,” he said, sounding too surprised to even his own ears. “It’s not just Ava; you three are like a-”

“It’s all of us, Raylan, why can’t you see that?” Boyd was back to being Boyd somehow. Maybe he regretted that moment of genuine emotion. Weakness. It got Raylan’s hackles to raise right back up out of pure habit. “It’s why Arlo’s here now. We’re a family, Raylan.”

“Barrel, bad apple,” Raylan gritted his teeth. “Don’t think I’m not gonna enjoy every damn second of putting you away for life, Boyd. You got feelings? Wonderful. That don’t excuse you from murder.”

“Now Raylan, I believe-” he was using his preacher voice now.

Raylan hated that voice. He rolled his eyes and turned away from it, from Boyd, from the whole cell, intent on joining the others in the conference room. He got one bad apple. Time to put the other one away too.

***

“I was afraid you wasn’t gonna wake up for days,” Ava said, coming into the living room.

Tim was sitting on the couch, head tilted back, eyes closed. “Still might. Not awake now. Go away.”

She managed a laugh, a quiet one, joined him on the couch. If she leaned into him, and he leaned into her, neither of them acknowledged it. “Hungry yet?”

He’d gotten home late last night, dropped off by one of Limehouse’s men. He’d been a mess- bloody, exhausted, unfocused. She’d bandaged up his wrists as he gave a short-story explanation, then he collapsed in his room and slept for nine straight hours. For him, it was a worryingly long time.

Ava picked up one of his hands, examined the bandage. “Ain’t bleeding through,” he mumbled, eyes still closed.

“Good,” she said, checking the other wrist anyway. “I’ll make some pancakes?” And bacon. And put out some fruit. Make coffee. Anything to get him eating, healthy, _okay_.

He nodded but didn’t move. Neither did she. For a few minutes she let herself pretend everything was fine. Boyd wasn’t arrested, Tim wasn’t hurt, she wasn’t hanging on by a thread.

But the house was too quiet without Boyd there, Tim had bandages and bruises and such a guarded look on his face. Boyd was maybe never getting out of jail. And Ellen May… Shit, the girl she’d put so much trust in may have betrayed them. And Ava had _hit_ her, like Bowman used to do to her.

Ava didn’t know whether to carry on in Boyd’s stead- she’d just taken over Audrey’s, what’d happen to those girls?- or grab Tim and head for somewhere not here. Canada. Somewhere cold. Build a cabin, make coffee and roast chestnuts all day. She could become a lumberjack, Tim could hunt reindeer, and-

“Hey.”

She turned to Tim. He hadn’t opened his eyes yet, but his hand turned to hold hers. She squeezed it. “Yeah?”

“’S gonna be okay,” he barely spoke over that mumble. “We’ll figure it out.”

She tried to breathe deeply, steadily, ward off the panic for awhile longer. “Yeah,” she agreed. “We will.”

He might’ve leaned into her a little more, and she relished the warmth, the everything. “I can make coffee for the pancakes.”

Ava laughed a little more genuinely “In a little while.” He was probably starving, but it was nice to just… do this. She squeezed his hand between both of hers, pretending to check the bandage again. “You gonna be okay? Whatever Quarles-”

“Didn’t do nothing for you to lose sleep over, Ava. I promise.” He opened his eyes, squinting, almost looking at her. “It would’ve been bad. But it wasn’t. Didn’t happen.”

“Still scary,” she pointed out softly. She dared to reach out, traced the butterfly bandage she’d put over the cut on his temple. Dared even more, touched the side of his face gently. Felt him swallow hard, close his eyes again. “It’s okay if you’re not okay, honey.”

There was a moment where he acknowledged that, let it register Then he opened his eyes and attempted one of his lopsided smiles. “Ava, when have I ever been okay?”

And she attempted another laugh in return. “Touché, Timmy.” She smoothed back his hair, just for a second, before he could react, and then sat back again, leaning her head down on his shoulder. 

After a moment he relaxed back too, his head maybe leaning down a tiny bit against hers. “Thanks, though.”

She smiled, poked him in the ribs. Pancakes, coffee, the _world_ , it could all wait another hour or so.

Or maybe not.

The phone rang, too loud in their little peaceful shelter, startling them both. Ava moved reluctantly, reached for the phone next to the couch. “Hello?” And then sat straight up. “Boyd?”

Tim sat up too, a little slower, still not quite at the top of his game. “Didn’t he already have his one phone call?”

She waved a hand to hush him, holding on tight to the phone with her other. “Baby? I’m here.” And then, once again, the game changed dramatically. “Arlo did _what_ now?”

***

Raylan wondered when this job would stop surprising him. Well, he guessed he was surprised. He felt more numb than anything else. But Art had grumbled something about shock and directed him back to his desk, all but giving him a cookie and conciliatory pat on the head.

Raylan turned his back to the office, looking out the window instead. So he wouldn’t have to see Arlo, wouldn’t have to see Boyd ‘free to go,’ wouldn’t see his own goddamn hat on his desk. Tom Bergen was technically dead because of that hat, because…

Okay. Maybe a little bit of shock.

Of course, his seat ended up giving him a perfect view of the parking lot. Tim’s truck must’ve still been at that campsite, because he was driving Ava’s. Ava herself jumped out before Tim was parked, throwing herself at Boyd, who caught her in his arms happily. Gratefully. They spun a little, both of them smiling, talking, kissing each other.

Raylan kinda wanted to throw something at them.

Tim climbed out of the truck, and Raylan unconsciously checked him over. Bandaged and bruised up, he still looked better than he had last night. He approached Boyd easily enough, looking his own version of relieved to see him.

Boyd, Raylan was disturbed to see, was doing a similar look-over to what Rayland had just done, though with more open concern. Said something to Tim, who just shrugged. Said something again. Whatever Tim said in reply had Boyd laughing a little, looking _his_ version of relieved, clapping Tim on the shoulder.

It just didn’t compute in Raylan’s brain.

See, Raylan’s only living relative was on his way to lockup for shooting someone he thought might’ve been Raylan. His pregnant ex-wife could barely stand to be in the same state as him, let alone room. Rachel had a dead sister and a husband she barely looked forward to going home to. Art’s daughters rarely came to visit him anymore. Tom Bergen’s kids would never see their father again.

And yet these three, these three criminals (they all were, Raylan made no mistake about that) had their weird little family unit intact at the end of the day. If Raylan thought too hard on that, it might’ve been enough to drive him crazy. 

Or to a bottle. That seemed better.

Trying to decide what his first drink of the night would be, he almost missed seeing Tim break away from the group and walk over to Raylan’s car. But he didn’t miss it, and he watched with narrowed eyes as Tim set something down on the ground by the driver’s side tire, then walked back to Boyd and Ava.

He watched Boyd examine Tim’s wrists again and take the keys, directing Tim to the back seat. Watched Tim follow directions with an eyeroll Raylan could see from several stories up. Watched Boyd and Ava kiss again, then get in the truck and drive off. Almost _literally_ into the sunset.

Raylan gave it a few more minutes, then got up. Leaving his hat behind- he couldn’t really look at it right now- he rode the elevator down, went to his car. There, just behind the front tire, where only the person getting in would probably see it, was a bottle of Pappy van Winkle bourbon.

He wondered if it was an apology, or commiseration, or a consolation prize. Or maybe a thank you.

He didn’t care. Looked like drinks were on Tim tonight.

***

Boyd and Ava were cleaning up after dinner, laughing and talking in the kitchen, providing pleasant white noise for Tim to sink into from the couch in the living room.

It was about as rested and comfortable as Tim had felt since Robert Quarles first came to Kentucky. His head and hands didn’t ache so much right now, and he’d eaten almost his weight in ham for dinner.

Tim wondered if there was something he was supposed to _do_ right now. Help wash the dishes. Call Jeremy to check in, maybe Mark. Clean his rifle. Make plans for tomorrow- the gun range, or go clean up the bar some. Repair the back room at Audrey’s for Ava to use.

But he just leaned back more into the couch, almost horizontal, and let the sounds of the two people he trusted most in the world lull him further, knowing he could. Knowing he’d be safe, he’d be able to get through the night with them around.

Tim closed his eyes and slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap on season 3! Thank y'all again- so so much- for reading and kudosing and everything. It's really awesome!
> 
>  
> 
> I'm gonna slowwwwwly work on season 4, and some other non-this-universe fics too, so see you then!


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